


some mad hope

by coffeesuperhero



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fighting, Implied Character Death, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, Minor Violence, Post-Canon, Serious Injuries, Slow Build, lokipologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thanos leads the Chitauri in a devastating attack on Asgard, seeking to claim Loki and the staff he wielded in his failed attack on Earth, Sif must protect Asgard's traitorous prince while Thor struggles to protect their home with the aid of his Midgardian comrades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers** : All characters belong to Marvel and various subsidiaries. This isn't for profit, just for fun. Title is coincidentally also the title of a Matt Nathanson album which has nothing to do with this story, and I borrowed a joke from _Futurama_ in this chapter, because I am very silly and could not resist, but it's a product of the genius of Groening  & co., not me. 
> 
> **Warnings** : Please mind the warnings in the tags and the notes on every chapter; they will change as the story progresses. There will be **canon-typical violence** throughout. This chapter also has **implied character death** and **serious injuries**. 
> 
> **General notes** : Not all the pairings and characters tagged up there are in every chapter, I just wanted to give folks a heads-up. Finally, I owe my Science Bro, Shadowen, a life debt for her endless patience and beta work and hand-holding while I wrote this.

They come without warning, descending upon Asgard in a rush of metal and circuitry, riding great roaring beasts that smash like bilgesnipe through the city streets.

Odin calls all of Asgard's warriors to arms, and Sif does not hesitate to obey, running alongside Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg as they race to catch up to Thor, already leagues ahead on the cusp of the major battle. Far ahead of them, they can just see the reassuring sight of Mjolnir, sailing back and forth between Thor and his foes.

These are the enemies Thor fought on Midgard, and there can be only one reason they are here, but Sif pushes the thought from her mind and plunges her sword into enemy after enemy, felling what seems like an infinite string of monsters.

And then suddenly before her, just as they reach the gates of the palace, the queen appears, motioning to Sif, drawing her away from the fighting.

"My queen?" Sif asks, kicking the dying body of one of their foes away from them.

"Protect my son," Frigga says, squeezing Sif's arm tightly, and Sif does not need to ask which son she means, for there is no plea the queen would even need make, were it Thor she spoke of now. Sif and the Warriors Three would protect Thor until they had no more strength in their bodies, but Sif fears she has no strength to give a traitor. Frigga seems to sense her reluctance, and she grips Sif's arm more urgently. "Please."

Sif looks between Frigga's hand, tight on her arm, and the battle raging on around them, the glory and the rush of it, but even as she longs to rejoin her friends, she knows in her heart she cannot deny her queen this request.

"Yes, my queen," she says. The words are bitter and hot in her mouth and she regrets them even as she speaks them.

"Thank you," Frigga says, and before Sif can reply, the queen slips back into a hidden door in the wall, gone as quickly as she had appeared.

Sif surveys the fighting, considering the best route to take her to the lower levels where they have held Loki since Thor brought him home, defeated and contemptuous.

"Sif?" Hogun queries, and when she shakes her head, he gives her a knowing nod and urges the others on, following a group of their enemies down a narrow lane. She watches them go, her fingers clutching her sword so tightly that she swears the pattern of the grip will transfer to her skin.

"Damn it all," she swears at last, thinking of Frigga and of Thor, but also of Loki, of late nights and stolen moments and whispered confessions in the dark, centuries ago, long before she ever knew better.

She shakes her head once more and sets her jaw, pushing aside the rush of memories that threatens to surge up and overtake her. The foes that meet her on her journey to Loki's cell will rue the day they were spawned, for she will give to them all her anger and her frustration; she wishes to keep none of it for herself. With this thought in her mind and her sword firmly in her hand, she turns her steps back to the palace.

+

When the Chitauri force open his cell, Loki is not exactly _surprised_ that no one else has come for him. If these beasts take him now, after all, none in Asgard need feel guilty for ordering his execution. Everyone gets what they want.

Everyone but Loki, though after this many centuries, _that_ is hardly unexpected.

Still, though he may not be Asgard's favored son, and he may not be her strongest warrior, he will not let them take him without a fight. His magic is bound up by this damned mask, but even without it he kills two of the lesser minions with the chains that bind his hands. Nevertheless he is overrun before long, slumping back against the far wall of his cell. It is too much to hope for that anyone will come for him before they take him. Why should they?

The only hope he has left depends entirely upon Thanos, but whether or not he will honor their little agreement remains to be seen. He is hardly in a position to negotiate for better treatment _now_ , and he had never planned on being thrown in front of Thanos in chains.

There is a commotion in the corridor outside, and he uses the distraction to his advantage, besting three more of the Chitauri with only one left standing. Before he can attack, the thing lets out a piercing shriek as the point of an Asgardian sword slices roughly up from its belly to its throat. Someone gives the corpse a vicious kick, and it slides off the blade with an awful slippery wet noise, leaving Sif standing alone in the doorway, shield held proudly over one arm as she shakes her bloodstained sword at him.

"On your feet," she demands, and he complies without hesitation. Sif strides over to him and strips the mask from his face without any regard for the pain it will cause, and he curses at her for it even as he allows himself a moment's silent gratitude for her timely arrival.

"Your mother sent me," she says, her lips curved in a grimace. "I am to keep you _safe_."

"If that thought is so odious to you, kill me and say you arrived too late," he snaps. "I would rather die at your hand then let these creatures have me."

"I took an oath to protect this realm, and my loyalty to that oath has never yet been called into question," she says, grinding her teeth. "I would not have it questioned over you."

"What do you propose to do with me, then?" he asks, careful to keep an angry edge to his voice to cover the fear that lies beneath it. Neither Thanos nor the Lady Sif are to be trifled with, and he has done far more than that.

"I propose to get you away from Asgard," she says, sighing.

"And how shall we go? Somehow I doubt that Odin will conjure dark energy for _me_ ," he says, and she snorts.

"Indeed not, for he is rather occupied at the moment, defending our kingdom from the monsters you have brought upon us," she says, kicking again at the corpse on the floor.

"I don't suppose the bifrost has been repaired," he says, pacing.

"Did you think I came down here without any sort of strategy?" she demands. "I do have a plan, if you can stop your worthless tongue's wagging for a moment."

"Well?"

He is not quite comfortable with the smirk that she gives him.

"You can aid in your own rescue, Prince," she says, smiling. "You are the one with secret ways between the realms, are you not?"

"Do you think you know all my secrets, Lady Sif?"

"I think only that I will kill you if you think of escaping," she says, unchaining his wrists. "And so?"

He waves his hand. "And where precisely would you like me to take us?"

"Vanaheim," she says resolutely, sheathing her sword. "Take us to Vanaheim."

"Very well," he sighs.

+

She steps through the portal he has opened, careful to keep her hand on his arm so that he cannot try any foolishness with his magic and illusions. But when the portal closes behind them, they are plunged into a darkness so complete that she can see nothing; with a whispering rustle of fabric and leather and metal, he moves his arm from her grasp. Her hand goes immediately to her sword, hoping it is not too late, but before she can draw it, an eerie blue-green light goes up from his hand, illuminating the strange chamber around them, and he looks at her hand on her sword and raises an eyebrow.

"Jumpy, aren't we," he murmurs, and she momentarily contemplates pushing him off the path into the yawning abyss below, but she settles for finding her feet, ensuring that she can walk with confidence on the narrow pathway.

"Where are we?" she asks after a time, risking a few glances around at the cavernous expanse above them as she follows him.

"Inside Yggdrasil," he says, as though it is nothing at all unusual for him, and she knows a moment's fierce rage at him for all his melodramatic posturing about being thought of as less than Thor, for this little ability of his is not a skill that many could claim to possess.

"How did you ever even come by this knowledge?"

"I read it," he says, his voice clipped and pointed, "in a _book_."

She can feel hot blood pulsing up to her face in response to his biting remark, as though warriors do not know the virtues of knowledge. But she says nothing more until they reach the point upon which he assures them they may exit the great tree into the realm of Vanaheim.

"After you," she says, nudging him with the point of her shield, fervently hoping that this task she has been appointed will soon be ended.

+

It is a very long trek from the place where they exit Yggdrasil to their destination. Sif will not explain to him where they are going, or how long it will take to get there. In point of fact, it seems that she will not deign to speak to him at all if she can help it, and the fine art of insult soon loses its appeal as she stubbornly refuses to react to his jibes. He joins her in silence, finally, and neither of them speak again until they reach a stone house carved into the face of a cliff.

"What is this place?" he asks, when she motions for him to precede her into the dwelling.

"It belongs to my mother's family," she says. "They took it during the war with the Vanir, long ago. It is no Gladsheim, dear prince, but between my family's defenses and my sword, you should keep your head attached to your body for another evening."

"You are making no promises about the morning, I take it," he murmurs grimly.

"There are some battles even I cannot win," she sighs, and he scrutinizes her face for some sign of hidden meaning, but whatever else she may have meant is not written there, and he turns his attention back to the house, surveying the rooms and committing the layout to memory. By the door sits a rack of bladed weapons, and he smiles wickedly down at them.

"I do have _some_ ability to defend myself," he reminds her, sending a dagger from the rack whizzing toward her. She deflects it easily, her sword already drawn.

"Let us hope that you will not need to," she replies, smirking as she slides her sword neatly into its place inside her shield, and the vicious smile that she gives him when at last she meets his eyes tells him that this, at least, means more than merely what is said. "I would hate to fail in my task, after all."

+

"A day into this fight and we have made little to no progress," Fandral says, plunging his rapier into an attacking foe. " _And_ we are one less in our company."

"Yes, where _is_ the Lady Sif?" Volstagg asks, taking advantage of a brief break in the fighting to lean heavily against the crumbling wall of a nearby building. "Here we three are, suffering, not a morsel in sight--"

"Sif would have us on our feet," Hogun says, as he emerges from behind a fallen group of enemies. "She would not hear our complaints."

"True, true," Volstagg replies, and then he laughs. "But in her absence we may rest a moment. And speak freely."

"We should enjoy our mirth in her stead," Hogun tells them. "She has been tasked by the queen with the protection of our traitorous prince."

"Oh, surely not," Fandral says. "Shall we place bets on whether or not he will survive the encounter?"

"Perhaps we should place bets as to whether or not we will," Volstagg says, as another swarm of invaders appears and advances on them. He grips his axe and gets to his feet. "Let us go and defeat them, then, for the sooner we do so, the sooner we may enjoy our victory feast."

+

Dinner is a tense affair. Sif would not be near him at all, but if she turns her back she suspects she may soon find a knife in it, and so she sits across from Loki at the long wooden table in what passes for a dining hall in this small house, staring at him as she angrily cuts into her food. They eat in silence, each of them listening, she supposes, for monsters; it occurs to her to wonder if she should count any noise he happens to make as evidence of evil drawing near.

He breaks the silence first, as she expected he might, for his theatre of war has ever been language.

"I hope you do not think me ungrateful," he begins. She makes a derisive noise, but he continues on, undeterred. "But why _exactly_ have you agreed to do this? It cannot simply be your loyalty to the Realm Eternal," he says, narrowing his eyes at her. "Is this _love_?"

"And why should it not be? I love your brother," she says fiercely, and she pauses after she says it, just to watch the briefest flicker of jealousy and hurt flit across his face before he hides it away under still more haughty resentment. She considers it a small victory, and she doesn't bother to disguise that before she continues. "I love him _as though he were my own kin_. All Asgard may think it is folly, but he loves you still, and I will help you if only so I never again need see the mournful look he wore in your absence."

"Yes, yes, you all mourned," he says dismissively.

"Thor mourns you still," she snaps, slapping her hand down on the table with such force that their goblets bounce against the heavy wood. "He has never stopped. You broke your brother's heart with your treachery, and I may never forgive you for that, but Thor will, because he is the best of all of us and he always has been. So I will protect your foolish neck, if only to give what little good may possibly remain in that cold wicked thing you call a heart a chance to show itself before the end, not for your sake, but for his."

She shoves the chair away from the table and snatches up the plates that held their dinner, counting knives as she does, just to be certain he has no weapons besides his magic and his mouth.

"You should rest while you can," she tells him. "We will leave here soon enough. I would not have us stay too long in one place, lest those beasts develop the ability to track you."

"And you?" he asks. "Will you not be resting?"

"You are so concerned for my welfare?"

"Hardly," he says, boredly surveying the state of the couch she had waved him towards. "I am, however, concerned that the only person defending me is well-rested."

"I'll sleep when I trust you," she says, and he rolls his eyes.

"Beautiful," he sighs. "I hope you enjoy the next several thousand years of wakefulness."

"You will not blame me for the trust I no longer have for you," she snaps. "You are the one who took it with you when you left."

+

She does intend to sleep, though she does not intend to tell Loki, for she had not mentioned the house's defensive mechanisms for naught: if he tries to leave, even by means of magic, she will know of it before he goes. And as sure as the stars glitter against the black expanse of the sky, the alarms rouse her from a restless half-slumber in the early hours of the morning on the third day of their stay here. She sighs as she slips from her own couch and walks quickly and quietly to a hidden passage in the wall, and by the time he appears in the garden, she is waiting, idly sharpening her sword.

"Fleeing somewhere?" she asks.

Loki takes a step backwards, keeping his eyes on her sword. "With you and your sword blocking the exit? Of course not," he says, clearing his throat. "I merely thought I might like some air."

She smiles, but it is an expression of malice, of mischief, even, and he takes another step back toward the house. "The house was instructed to inform me if you attempted to leave," she explains. "I suppose I forgot to mention that earlier."

"The house can do that," he says dubiously. "How, precisely?"

"Magic, I would wager," she answers, tucking her sword back into its place behind her shield. "Though of course I yield to your _expertise_ on the subject."

"How do you know to do that?"

"I read it," she taunts, "in a _book_."

"You can read?" he says, but his tone is less bitter, less biting, more playful, more like it used to be, and so she lets it pass without comment, settling for rolling her eyes and walking past him towards the house.

"Far be it for me to question the wisdom of your _strategies_ ," he says, and she turns and shoots him a look that is sharper than her swords, but he carries on as though he had not noticed. "But I thought it might be helpful if you shared them with me."

"I had thought your plan would be to get away from me as quickly as possible," she remarks, gesturing around the garden to prove her point. "So _I_ did not imagine that it would be terribly helpful for me to do so."

"It displeases me to admit it, but my life is far safer in your hands than in anyone else's," he sighs.

"What will they do with you, if they catch you?" she asks.

"Something was mentioned about deepening my understanding of pain," he says, and for all that he feigns disinterest, she has heard fear hiding in an enemy's mocking voice too many times over the years not to know it now. Despite his many transgressions, she cannot help but feel a brief sharp tug of sympathy for his situation, even if he is the one who has put himself in it. She reminds herself to keep a watchful eye on him all the same; some prey is at its most vicious when cornered, and with your back to the wall in the darkness it is hard to tell friend from foe. Truthfully, when it comes to him, she does not yet know which she might be.

"I suppose," she says, after a thoughtful few moments, "I suppose I lose little by telling you that we should keep moving, change our encampments every few days, until our armies have vanquished these creatures."

"You have indeed lost little, for you have told me only what you already have said," he grumbles, and she shrugs.

"What more would you have me tell you? It is fairly simple. We survive until this war has ended. I swore to protect you, and that is what I will do."

"And when the war is won? What then will you do with me?"

"The manner of your return to Asgard is not for me to decide," she tells him. "I rather think that will be up to you."

His expression is one of accusation, not acceptance, but he makes no comment about it. "Where do you intend for us to go?"

"Any realm that will give us safe harbor," she sighs. "Not Muspelheim. Certainly not Jotunheim."

She waits for some biting remark about their one brief visit to the frozen land of the Jotnar, but whatever his thoughts are about it, he keeps his own counsel, for which she is grateful.

"We should avoid Midgard," he adds. "Somehow I think they would not celebrate my return."

"Very well," she says, sighing again. "Not to Midgard. Have you attempted to subjugate or destroy any other realms in your time away from home? For we are rapidly running out of options."

"None that I can reach with my magic," he says, teeth gleaming in the early morning light, and she struggles to maintain a level head.

" _Excellent_ ," she bites out. "I believe that concludes our strategy session, then."

"But you have yet to consider, have you not, what happens if the Chitauri defeat our armies," he says, and she has never hated him more than she does at this moment, not only for questioning the strength of their people, but for encouraging her to do so as well. "What happens to us if the Realm Eternal is not as formidable as you think she is?"

"It will _never_ come to that," she says, gritting her teeth and gripping her sword but otherwise holding tight to her anger, for fear that she cannot keep it contained once she sets it free. "Asgard will not fall, no matter what wickedness you have brought upon her."

"How do you know? You have not seen their armies," he says, stepping closer, "but I have commanded them. I have watched them descend upon a thriving city and lay waste to it, destroying all in their path. Asgard has a formidable army, truly, but the Chitauri are infinite: they need neither rest nor sustenance, and they will not stop until there is _nothing_ but --"

"Be quiet," she says suddenly, slapping her fingers over his mouth to stop his useless talking, and his lips move soundlessly under her fingers for a moment before he presses them together in a thin line. They are colder than she remembers, but perhaps that is only the chill of everything that has happened since the last time she had cause to know their warmth. Still, the unexpected coldness seems to sap her anger, shocking it away, and all she feels is the vaguely uncomfortable thrill of the nearness of him.

"I thought I heard something," she lies, her hand dropping from his mouth to rest against the smooth leather that covers his chest. She flexes her fingers, drawing her hand up so that only the tips of her fingers are touching him, suddenly very aware that she has not willingly been this close to him in many a year. But then he lifts an eyebrow, just so, his face a portrait of cold hauteur, and she is reminded all too swiftly that she would invade Hel's garrison singlehandedly before she walked down that path again. It is not worth the heartache; it was not worth the scars.

"And did you?" he asks, staring haughtily down at her.

"I was mistaken," she says coldly, and marches back into the house.

+

"A fight," Sif says dubiously, staring up at him. "With you."

"I thought you might enjoy the distraction," Loki says innocently.

"You thought me addled, if you thought I would hand you weapons willingly," she replies.

"As we discussed," he says, "it is currently in my best interest to remain with you. And my quarrel was never with _you_ , exactly."

"Indeed not," she laughs, "only with my loyalty, for that is why you tried to have all of us killed, is it not?"

"I can't help that you put yourself in harm's way," he says, and she narrows her eyes at him.

"You are trying to goad me into attacking you, and I will not give you what you want that easily," she says, sitting resolutely down on one of the benches near the small arena. She hopes he does not notice how her fingers are twitching against the grip of her sword, but as little details rarely escape his notice, it is a vain hope and she knows it.

"What am I to do, then, lady?"

"Change tactics," she advises, sighing.

"You were deprived of a longer battle with the Chitauri on Asgard," he says, his voice as warm and slippery as the blood she has cleaned from her sword. "It is the least I can do."

She rolls her eyes. "You had that mask on too long; you are out of practice."

"Am I?" he asks, looking with interest at her hand, which is now actively gripping her sword.

"Yes," she says, crossing her arms over chest and staring out across the valley.

"It's only a brief sparring match," he says. "What harm can it do?"

"What a strange reversal this is," she muses. "How many hours of our adolescence did I waste trying to convince you to come out and fight with me?"

"Too many, though admittedly," he says, "your motives were probably more honorable than mine ever are."

"Are you trying honesty as a new tactic now?"

"Will it work, if I do?"

"What do you _want_?" she asks, exasperated. There was a time when talking to him was not this exhausting, and she misses it more with every convoluted conversation she is forced to have with him. "Speak plainly, if you please, for once in this century."

"I am _bored_ ," he says. "We have been here for days."

"We agreed to be here for days. And you have been in prison, Loki, why is it that now that you are free you complain of boredom?"

"Oh, but now I have the luxury to complain. And I know you feel it too," he says, advancing on her. "Crawling underneath your skin, keeping you awake at night when you should be sleeping instead of consumed with worry for your home and regret that you are not there to defend it. No, lady, I tell you we will both go mad without something to do."

"You have a shorter journey to madness than I do," she snaps, irritated that he has struck a nerve and far more irritated that he knows he has done so.

"That may be so, but surely it is better for you if I do not turn my steps in that direction?"

"There is a library," she suggests, pointing back at the house. "Surely there is something in there to hold your interest."

"There is something here that has held my interest far longer," he says, and this time something in the silken slide of his voice makes her nauseous, reminds her things she wishes she could forget so she could hate him without reservation or regret. If he thinks there is the slightest chance they could fall back into old habits without so much as an apology, he is sorely mistaken.

He takes half a step forward and the point of her long sword is pressing against the joint of his ribcage before he can move any further. "That way is closed to you," she says tightly, gripping her sword. "And it has been for a very long time. I suggest you find another path."

"The mistakes of our youth," he mocks.

"It should not have been a mistake," she says, for once allowing all of her regret and her sadness and her anger over that particular portion of their past to color her voice, and something about it must have startled him, for he takes a step away from her. Sif pulls her sword back at last and stalks past him towards the house. "If you try to leave," she calls, "the house will alert me. Find another use for your time than deviling me."

+

It seems a thing impossible, but as Thor surveys the lines of bruised and bleeding warriors, even his normally buoyant spirits are flagging. He has been avoiding this moment for days now, rallying his friends and encouraging everyone under his command to find hidden reserves of strength for yet another bout with these creatures, but here in the fading light of day he knows their numbers are far less than they have been, while the enemy surges forward, producing what seems like an endless string of monsters for every one warrior fighting for the safety of Asgard. It is a terrible yet undeniable truth that weighs heavily upon his heart, and he can avoid it no longer: their people are outnumbered, and they are failing.

Under the command of their leader Thanos, the Chitauri now have the run of Asgard, and Thor fears what the morning will bring. Never had he thought the Realm Eternal could fall. Their people are strong and proud, with bravery beyond compare, but none of that matters against these tireless lines of enemies. He is exhausted, and even the easy weight of Mjolnir is growing difficult to bear.

He watches another group of soldiers, far down the battlefield, overwhelmed by a flood of Chitauri, and he heaves a sigh and hurtles toward them, crashing through the circle of foes and clearing the way for his comrades. He sighs as they go, shuffling tiredly back to the ranks, and that is when he knows what he must do.

If Asgard cannot stand alone, then someone must come to her aid.

He finds the Warriors Three further down the battlefield, fighting one of the ugly great flying beasts that he remembers from Midgard. He joins them in their quest, and eventually they fell the creature, its body smashing into the once golden field, plowing up the ground as it slows to a stop.

"Come, my friends," Thor says tiredly, beckoning to the Warriors Three. "We have been fighting for many days. It is long past time you had some rest, and I would speak with my father."

"I hope Sif has fared better than we have," Volstagg says, falling in beside Thor as they make their way through the fallen bodies of friends and foes alike.

"I cannot imagine she is enjoying herself overly much, protecting _Loki_ ," Fandral points out. He stops walking, then, and casts an apologetic look at Thor. "I am sorry, my friend, I did not mean--"

"It is understandable," Thor sighs. He beckons to them once more. "Come."

Together they march across the field of battle towards Odin's tent, stopping along the way to give words of encouragement to their people, telling them to hold the lines and not give up hope, for victory will be Asgard's without doubt.

Thor has never before had quite so much respect for his brother's talent for lies.

The curve of one of the younger warrior's swords casts a strange shadow on the ground as they pass by, and to Thor's battle-weary eyes for a moment it resembles Loki's silhouette. He knows another fierce rush of anger at his faithless brother's treachery, followed, as it always is, by a sense of guilt and sadness so overpowering that he cannot help but think he will fall to his knees before he can go another step. It should not have been thus, that someone he loves so dearly should have suffered so long in silence over the deeds of his own hands, nor that the result of all that misery was the pain and death that he walks through now. He longs for the days of their youth, when Loki was always beside him, ready with a quick jest or a wry remark when their adventures did not go as Thor had planned. But perhaps that too was an illusion, nothing more than a trick of the light.

"Thor," Hogun says, breaking into his thoughts. "We have arrived."

"Wait for me here, my friends," Thor says, and they nod their assent, sinking tiredly to the ground as Thor goes in to speak with Odin.

"Father," Thor says quietly as he makes his entrance. He kneels, hand over his heart, but Odin waves him quickly to his feet. "I have come to discuss the battle for Asgard."

"How does the fighting go? I have had reports from the field, but I would hear your opinion on these matters, my son."

"I fear I have no good news, Father," Thor says. He leaves Mjolnir on the ground near a long low table covered with maps and comes to stand next to his father, gazing tiredly out across the battlefield. "The battle goes ill, but that much I am sure that you already know."

"I do." Odin lays a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment. "And what would you do, if you were king?"

"I would send for aid," Thor says immediately, and his father frowns and gestures toward the fighting.

"Where would you seek it? If Asgard cannot repel these forces, who can?"

"Give me the tesseract," Thor pleads, holding out his hands. "I will return to Midgard and speak with my friends there. They have defeated these creatures before, perhaps with their aid we can do so again."

"And if you do? There is no portal to close to end this onslaught, my son," Odin sighs. "These creatures will attack until the one who leads them has what he wants."

"Mother sent Loki away with Sif," Thor says. "She will not fail to keep him safe, nor will she let him be captured."

"I know this," Odin says. "But I also know that it is not only your brother that Thanos seeks."

Thor frowns. "What else can there be?"

"He seeks the staff that your brother wielded on Midgard," Odin replies. "And the tesseract."

"How is it that you know this?" Thor asks, and Odin sinks heavily into one of the ornate chairs surrounding the table.

"Thanos has made his demands known to me," Odin says. "The fighting will end with the morning. We have one week to produce what he demands, or the siege begins anew."

"What will you do? You cannot be considering making a deal with them."

"What would you have me do?" Odin snaps, slamming his fist down upon the table. "Our armies are already failing. Tell me, in all your wisdom: can we survive another onslaught?"

"I do not know what strength there is in Asgard, but Father, I do know that you cannot simply _hand Loki over_ to these creatures," Thor shouts.

"No," Odin sighs, holding up his hand, suddenly older than Thor has ever seen him. "No, I could not, but it is just as well that he has fled with the Lady Sif, and that we do not possess the scepter. Neither of these things have I told Thanos, but in a week I will have little choice but to seek them out. I love your brother, but I cannot surrender the lives of all our people to save his."

"Tell Thanos that we do not have what he seeks," Thor pleads. "Tell him that Loki is gone, and I will take Sif's place at his side. Let them chase us across galaxies unnumbered; they will never take us, not if we have to run until Ragnarok comes for us all."

"You would do that for Asgard?"

"For Asgard, and for Loki," Thor says. "For whatever else he may be, he is still my brother."

"Your loyalty is admirable," Odin says. He grips Thor's shoulder briefly. "But I think that Thanos will not believe that we do not have what he asks for."

"What then shall we do? What hope is there?" Thor asks, and Odin produces the case containing the tesseract, holding it carefully in front of him.

"Go to Midgard with my blessing," Odin says, handing Thor the tesseract. "Ask them to lend us their strength if they can, for if Asgard falls to Thanos and his armies, I fear none of the realms will be safe for long."

"I will bring them back," Thor says, gripping the handles of the case. "And we will have our victory. I swear it."

+

Sif is in the library, dozing, a book on the weapons and fighting styles of the Vanir open in her lap, when her ears alert her to the unmistakable sound of Loki creeping into the room. Before he takes more than two steps inside she pulls a dagger from her boot and throws it; it lands with a very satisfying _thud_ in the wooden frame of the door.

"Oh, very good," he says, eyeing the dagger cautiously. "A pity you missed me."

"I didn't miss you," she says, arching an eyebrow at him. "What do you want?"

"An answer to a question," he replies, and after a moment she waves her hand for him to continue. "You mentioned the sparring matches of our youth. Why did you seek me out for those? Surely there were others among our friends who would have required you to expend far less effort."

She leans forward, thinking, weighing her words before she speaks, wondering what fresh conversational hell he is leading her into with this, but finding in neither his question nor his face any hint at what it might be, she decides to answer as though there were none, as though they might still be friends. "You were more interesting than the rest of our friends," she says at last. "And I do like a challenge."

"That is all, is it," he says, and he sounds almost disappointed.

"What else would it have been?" she asks, mystified.

"Nothing," he says stiffly, standing and making for the door. "A military exercise and nothing more."

It occurs to her then what the morning's conversation must have been, and her fingers tighten around the spine of the book in frustration. She learned long ago that Loki never apologizes for the things that he does, at least, not in so many words. It would be so much simpler to say, "I am sorry," and mean it, but she has always suspected that he finds the honest sincerity in any admission of wrongdoing to be far more frightening than any of the monsters they have ever faced. So much of him is hidden, and not least the very few things for which he might feel a modicum of remorse.

Sif is more adept than most at parsing the complicated language of what he hasn't said, but finding the truth in any of the things that he says or does requires a constant vigilance that is extraordinarily tiresome, and she doubts that most of Asgard has ever known or bothered, not that she blames them. It is so very convoluted and frustrating, so very _like him_ , or at least, like he was once, for even on their best days she still had long moments where she was not sure whether she wanted to kiss him or kill him, though that had kept her interest far longer than anyone else ever had. But if he wants to apologize for the last several centuries of mischief and misery by offering her a chance to best him in battle, she does not have the wherewithal to refuse him.

The book on warfare hits him squarely in the back, and he whirls around to face her, hands up, clearly expecting a volley of some other missiles, but she remains seated, nonchalantly paging through a different tome entirely, and he brandishes the book at her with a curious look on his face.

"Oh. How careless of me," she says, her voice saccharine and lilting like a handmaiden's.

"You are many things," he replies, waving the book at her, "but careless has never been one of them."

"You mentioned a fight," she says, quietly willing him to allow her to accept whatever complicated offer of a truce he had tried to extend earlier.

She watches him turn it over, analyze it, and she withholds a sigh as she wonders what strange insult he may read into such simple words.

"So I did," he says at last, and she rewards him with the briefest of smiles before closing the book she's holding and setting it back on the low table near the couch.

"No conventional weapons," she says.

"What is conventional for me is not exactly conventional for you," he points out.

"Yes, you can still _talk_ ," she says, and he does actually laugh at that, but her instincts have her on the floor only half a moment before his magic sends half the books in the library flying at her head.

"A pity you missed me," she calls.

"I didn't miss you," he answers, and that does earn him a grin from her before she hurls a table at him and sprints down the corridor ahead of him.

They haven't sparred properly in centuries, and oh, she has missed it. There were a few battles in distant realms, to be sure, but that hardly counts as a proper match in her estimation. The incident with the Destroyer on Midgard was for Thor's imaginary transgressions, not her own, and while she welcomed the challenge, it is difficult to work on sharpening one's skills when the other party is only out for blood and death.

Then again, she considers, blocking a sudden blaze of flame with a large metal crockery lid as they fight their way through the kitchen, perhaps this is not all that different. Perhaps that's why she really enjoys these matches, why she always pestered him for bouts when they were children: there is a necessary but thrilling uncertainty that comes only from fighting with someone who has little or no regard for rules, and she has learned more about strategy, cunning, and wit from her fights with him than she has from the sum and total of all other altercations.

It is only fitting that this is the moment he chooses to send a dagger flying her way, and she moves a fraction to her left in just in time, feeling the blade slide uncomfortably close to her ear and slice through her hair on its way to the wall behind her.

"We have rules for a reason!" she shouts, and she gets only a laugh from him in return, but it isn't anger or frustration that she feels as she pulls a sword from the wall, only wild delight and the promise of glory.

"Rules?" he queries, as she brandishes her sword at him, daring him to attack her.

"Broken. You started it," she says.

"Is it not always thus?" he says, and she laughs, but it does not distract her from blocking his next advance, nor him hers, and on and on until they both launch an attack at once and crash into each other.

They land roughly on the hard stone floor, and though she has her sword pressed against his throat, she knows this is no victory, for she can feel the strange touch of magic wrapped around her own neck like an invisible hand, squeezing once in warning.

"Draw?" Loki asks, wheezing as her knee pushes against his ribs.

"Draw," she says, her own chest heaving against her armor.

"That usually means you remove your blade from my neck, lady," he says, eyeing the dagger with no small amount of suspicion. "Unless the rules changed during my _absence_."

"If anything was absent, Loki, I think it was your conscience," she snorts, and he hasn't even the grace to look ashamed, but nor does she have the will to move away from him. "And I will set aside my weapon only after you set aside yours."

"Why must _I_ always go first?" he complains.

"Because you always cheat," she says, unable to keep a smile from her face.

"I am sorry for that," he says, and she rolls her eyes.

"Oh, don't even try it," she says, turning the blade so it lays flat across his neck. "If you want to distract someone with sentiment, save it for your family."

"I thought you might appreciate an apology," he says.

"I might," she remarks, raising an eyebrow at him, "but if ever you choose to do so in a manner in which I may be inclined to believe is sincere, I doubt it will involve words at all."

This is breaking a rule, she knows, acknowledging that she is aware of this peculiar, tragic tendency of his to create elaborate scenarios in which to hide whatever small amount of regret he might happen to feel, but even so he gives her a hint of a smile, and she can feel the magical hold on her neck loosen.

"It's a start," she says at length, pulling her sword back from his neck. "We should leave this realm soon."

"Very well," he says, and though they fall into silence once more until it is time to go, it is not as chilly a silence as it has been.

+

Two days into their stay on Svartalfheim, Sif can barely stay awake. She hasn't slept well since they began this misadventure, and it is finally starting to show in her steps and her speech, though she will not admit it and she will hardly be asking Loki for aid.

"You should rest," Loki says, breaking into her thoughts. "I believe I can keep watch while you slumber; I am competent enough to do that."

"It is not your competency I distrust," she says.

"Rest," he says, spreading his hands. "What could happen?"

"You could kill me in my sleep and flee," she suggests.

"Such little faith," he says, yawning. "I probably wouldn't kill you; I'd probably just leave."

"Do you really think you can mock me for that? You _have_ tried to kill me," she points out.

"You can't possibly still be angry about that," he says, waving his hand dismissively.

"I do believe I can," she says, staring at him with no small amount of incredulity.

"As you like," he sighs. "But you cannot continue on forever without sleep. Do you think I did not notice that _twice_ you nearly lost your footing entirely on that little hike down from the mountains?"

"But I kept my feet," she says. "Thank you for your _concern_."

"Entirely genuine, I assure you," he drawls, but he mercifully says no more.

She is barely awake when they strike, and she curses her tired body as she fumbles for her sword, scrambling to her feet, shouting at Loki to wake him. They are very quickly surrounded, the Chitauri encircling the two of them, waiting for their attack.

"Scouts?" he asks, glancing around.

"Scouts," she agrees. "If we leave none alive we buy ourselves a day or so."

"I think we can manage that," he says, rubbing his hands together, and she gives him a grim smile and grips her shield tighter.

It is a good fight, and for many long moments, if she forgets why they are fighting, she can imagine that all of the pain and the betrayal was nothing more than a terrible vision, that this is but one more excursion to a distant realm with those she loves most, wading into the thick of battle with her friends by her side. Surely if she turns her head she will see Volstagg's axe or Fandral's rapier or Hogun's mace alongside her swords and Loki's magic; surely at any moment Thor will shout for them to follow him to some new glory.

But it is only a waking dream, and she knows it, even as she wishes it were true. They are alone here in the wilderness, and of all Asgard, no one save Thor would now count Loki as a friend. They fight for their lives in a battle he has begun, not for Asgard, but for himself, and all she can do is her duty.

The first round of the battle goes easily for them, and they defeat their enemies handily. But then a horde of new beasts descends upon them, forcing them apart. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Loki flinging spell after vicious spell at those surrounding him, and she turns her attention to those advancing on her, felling five of them in short order. But the fight goes ill soon after, her tired body betraying her at last. She knows her mistake almost before her foes do, but there is nothing to be done: she surges forward, killing the creatures directly in front of her, but that leaves one foe at her back, and before she can turn to eliminate it, she feels its weapon pierce her side.

Through a haze of pain, she watches Loki dispatch the last two Chitauri before turning back to her. If it were Thor or any of the Warriors Three, she knows they would run to her side, offering aid and words of encouragement, but Loki stands where he is, watching, his eyes lingering on the weapon lodged in her belly. It is to his credit, she supposes ruefully, that he waits for her at all, but she knows very well that he will not stay. If this is to be her end then it will come on her own terms.

"Go," she says, inwardly cursing the broken, mournful sound of the word as it escapes her lips.

He looks for a moment as though he might protest. Then he waves his hands and steps into the blackness of Yggdrasil, and she is alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers agree to come to Thor's aid and the aid of Asgard. Loki has tricks up his sleeve, but the Avengers have a few of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : This chapter has **canon-typical violence**.

The pain is what tells her that she is yet living. The hands dressing her wound are attempting to be gentle, she can tell, but with an injury such as this one even the lightest touch is agony, and she cannot help but groan at the sharp throbbing ache of it.

"Careful," someone snaps, and Sif struggles to open her eyes, but her eyelids are like the heaviest stones and she gives up in defeat, trying to make sense of the voices around her.

"Well?" the angry voice demands again. "Will she live, or no?"

 _Loki_ , she realizes, and she must have spoken his name aloud, for cool fingers wrap around her arm, squeezing with surprising gentleness.

"Lyfia," he says, and at last she recognizes the clever hands of Asgard's master healer and does her best to relax and trust the woman who has repaired all her hurts since she was no more than a girl. She wonders, though, how Lyfia came to be here, if it is even possible that Loki went to collect her, for she can barely believe he would bother.

"Answer me," Loki says.

"It remains to be seen," Lyfia replies calmly. "You can see for yourself how grievous this wound is."

Loki's fingers leave her arm, then, and Sif can hear him pacing, his boots scraping the hard ground. "Can you not hurry?" he asks.

"Healing takes time even with the slightest injuries, Prince, and this is no small wound she has received while fighting your battle."

"If we remain here too long, the Chitauri may well return," he snaps.

"And where do you propose to go?" Lyfia asks. "You will have seen for yourself that Asgard has not yet rid herself of the foes you brought upon us, Loki; you cannot return home if you wish to live."

"Midgard," Sif says, groaning as she struggles to open her eyes and focus on the two of them. "We will go to Midgard."

"You should not travel far, Lady Sif," Lyfia advises. "This wound needs time to heal."

Sif shakes her head, then begins to sit up, slowly and carefully, fighting all the while to find a way to stay atop the pain that wracks her body. "Loath as I am to admit it," she says finally, "Loki is correct. We should not stay here." Loki gives Lyfia a triumphant look, but it is short-lived, for when she speaks again, she says, "Lady Lyfia is not wrong, Loki, I cannot go much further without at least one night's rest," she says, hoping he will understand that this admission is not something she makes lightly.

"So we go to Midgard? That is precisely what you wished to avoid," he reminds her.

"No, it is precisely what _you_ wished to avoid, and though I agreed with you, we can avoid it no longer. I must rest, and at least Thor's friends on Midgard have proven that they have the might to withstand the wrath of the Chitauri, should we be followed."

"Thor's _friends_ on Midgard will have my head while you sleep," he hisses, and she shrugs, wincing as the movement pulls at the tender skin surrounding her wound.

"That is a risk we must take, I fear," she sighs. "For if we are to seek a realm where you have not angered someone, then surely we have no ground to go to."

"The Lady Sif speaks wisdom, if you would hear it," Lyfia remarks, and Loki rolls his eyes at her.

"Watch your tongue, healer, or you may find yourself walking home from this realm," he says, but Lyfia only laughs.

"I will make my own way, for I am not without a few tricks of my own," she replies. "But the two of you should go, if go you must, and swiftly."

Sif nods and drags herself to her feet with another groan and a grimace. "Tell the queen that I will keep my word," she says to Lyfia, as Loki casts the spell that will take them to Midgard.

"I will," Lyfia promises.

"Sif," he says, holding a hand out for her, and she swears loudly when she has to stagger over to him, clutching her side.

"If she does not survive this, prince, I will hold you personally responsible," Lyfia calls, and Sif does not see it, but she strongly suspects that he makes nothing but a very rude gesture in response.

+

"How long," Sif asks, slumping reluctantly against Loki as they shuffle slowly along the innermost branches of Yggdrasil, "is this going to take?"

"I do not know," he replies. "I have never traveled this way to Midgard."

"Is there no magic you can do to speed us along?"

"Not without foreknowledge of the path to our destination, which I do not have," he says. "Magic cannot solve all the world's ills."

"Are you telling me," she asks pointedly, "or yourself?"

Before he can make some suitably biting reply in answer, another rolling wave of pain hits her, this one so intense that her feet will no longer obey her commands to move forward, and though she bites back most of an involuntary moan, enough of it escapes that he looks down at her, startled.

"Sif," he says, and she would swear there is a note of _worry_ in his voice. She would be ashamed of her weakness, but something about it anchors her and keeps her steady and mostly standing, though she cannot yet summon the energy to make a reply. " _Sif_ ," he says again, and this time there is definitely worry behind it.

"I am fine," she manages to say, though her stubborn feet remain unmoving.

"Enough of this, we are wasting time," he declares, and though it wounds her pride more than her enemy's weapon has wounded her body, she cannot find the strength to stop him from lifting her off her feet.

"Put me down," she protests, but he does not, at least, not until they reach a wider place on the path, where several pathways converge to make a sizable ledge against the wall. He lets her down then, settling her against the wall so she can rest, and she glares up at him. "I will kill you if you tell anyone about this."

"I would expect nothing less," he remarks.

"Leave me here and go," she grumbles, irritated to be this helpless, especially in front of him. "I will find my own way out of this maze."

"You cannot get out without magic," he explains.

"I still have a sword, which is more than you have," she snaps. The wall at her back is cool and damp, but it is not uncomfortable, and she closes her eyes for a moment, hoping the chill at her back will calm some of the throbbing pain in her side.

He kicks somewhat savagely at her foot and her eyes snap open again. "What?"

"You weren't insulting me, I thought something was wrong."

She looks up at him in disbelief. "I cannot begin to enumerate the ways in which you have earned any insults I have given you." She sighs and rubs her forehead, feeling the dirt and grime of the last several days sliding under her fingertips. "Why did you come back for me at all? The last time I spoke to you before this insane adventure, you sent the Destroyer to kill me, so I cannot believe you are overly concerned for my life."

"That was different," he says.

"How?"

"I didn't need you alive," he says, and she cannot help but laugh, though even this little bit of laughter reignites the pain in her wound.

"The truth at last," she groans. "Help me up, then, as long as my life is of some use to you, and let us be gone."

+

Sif is barely standing when he casts the spell to allow them to exit the tree. If he is worried for her at all it is only due to his unfortunate present need for an ally who will not kill him in his sleep and nothing more; nothing slows plans to a crawl like the need to seek out minions. That blasted staff had certainly expedited _that_ at least, and it is not lost on him that these mortals probably still have it. Perhaps coming to Midgard will not prove to be a complete waste of time.

Sif sways at his side, but keeps her feet; he does not remark upon it. Whatever history there is between them, it does not mandate his concern.

At her unrelenting insistence, he takes them to a place he has been before, though the last place he ever expected to be again: the Tower of Stark and the site of his defeat at the hands of the very people they must now beg for sanctuary. It is insulting, but marginally less painful in his estimation than being captured by the Chitauri. Still, there is a moment-- well, more than a moment, a series of moments, really-- after they appear in front of these mortals when he strongly considers abandoning her with them and fleeing somewhere, anywhere, as long as it is elsewhere. But then the one that morphs into a monster stands up from where is he has been sitting and shakes his head in warning, and there is nothing to be done but remain.

"If you needed another ass-kicking," Barton says, idly drawing his bowstring, "you came to the right place."

He has to admit a grudging sort of respect for Sif in that moment, who somehow manages to fight past whatever terrible pain she must be feeling to draw her sword and raise her shield and step in front of him.

"I am the Lady Sif, warrior of Asgard, and Loki is under my protection and the protection of Thor," Sif says, grimacing as she tries to stay upright. "You will touch him at your peril."

"Maybe we should ask Thor about that," Stark proposes.

"Thor," Sif says, clearly relieved, and Loki all but grinds his teeth at the _reverence_ in her voice. "Thor is here?"

Stark frowns. "You didn't know?"

"We have been running," Sif says, but before she can continue, she sways on her feet, undone by the pain of her injuries at last. Her sword hits the hard floor first, the sound of it loud and jarring, but before her overwrought body can follow, Loki catches her up in his arms, surprised by his own concern for her as he looks down at her head cradled in the crook of his arm. She seems smaller this way, and that is no comfort: Sif should be tall and strong and larger than life, larger at least than these wretched mortals arrayed before them.

There are more now to their number than they were a few moments ago, he observes.

"Phil," a tall redheaded woman snaps, speaking into a metal box on the wall near the doors. He doesn't recognize her. She is Stark's consort, no doubt, judging from the concerned looks she casts in Stark's direction. "We have a situation up here. Bring Thor, please, and hurry."

Consort or no, he would be wrong to judge this woman useless, apparently; as soon as she finishes speaking, some hidden trigger clicks on, and in short order she wears a suit that matches Stark's.

"I think you should answer Clint's question," she says, her palms up toward him, a threatening white light gleaming up from them. "What are you doing here?"

"I believe," Loki says, clearing his throat and looking around at the assembled mortals, all their weapons drawn and pointing directly at him, "that I was promised a drink."

+

When Sif wakes, she is sprawled across a decently sized bed that must be located somewhere within the Tower of Stark, for the view out the large windows is much the same as what little she remembers from earlier. Someone has left her weapons lying next to her, and she smiles at the small courtesy.

The door opens and a woman steps through, dressed all in black but for the red accents on her belt.

"Glad to see you're awake," the woman says. "I thought you might like to know that your prisoner is occupied. Thor's still here. They're...talking."

"With their fists, I take it," Sif says, and the woman only shrugs in response. Sif slowly brings herself to a sitting position, pleased to note that the motion is not met with crippling pain. "What do they call you?"

"I'm Natasha," she says. "And you are-- sorry, is it _Lady_ Sif, or do we just call you Sif? I've heard it both ways."

Sif smiles at her. "I have little use for titles at present; Sif will do." She tries to recall the details of Thor's more recent tales of Midgard. "You are the one they call Black Widow?"

"Among other things," Natasha says, sounding as though she is amused, and from the twist of her lips as she says it, Sif can tell that this is a woman who understands what it is to fight for her place in the world. She sympathizes.

"I have heard tales of your cleverness and your bravery," Sif tells her, surveying the weapons attached to Natasha's belt. "Your friends are fortunate to have such a warrior fighting alongside them."

"So are yours," Natasha replies, looking with no small amount of interest at Sif's swords, lying neatly beside her on the bed. Natasha stands, then, and gestures to a small room behind them. "I'll give you a minute, but I'll be outside if you need something. You can clean up in there if you want. There's clothing for you, too: not what you're used to, but better than nothing. Your weapons and your armor will be safe in here if you want to leave them. We take that kind of thing pretty seriously."

"I can imagine," Sif says, thinking of Thor's stories of his mortal friends, of Anthony Stark with his flying red suit of iron and of Steven Rogers with his shield that repels even the lightning bolts of a god. "You have my thanks. I know that I have asked much of you in coming here, and in bringing Loki back to this place."

"You asked us to do our jobs," Natasha says. "No more, no less."

"I understand that he took the life of one of your fellow warriors in the battle for Midgard," Sif says quietly, bowing her head. "I know that it must mean very little, but I am truly sorry for your loss. It is never easy to lose a friend, even though you know that they go to the halls of Valhalla."

At that, Natasha actually smiles, and Sif frowns at the unexpected reaction.

"Thank you for that, but we're not exactly strangers to deception around here," she says slyly. "Coulson's doing just fine, though if it's all the same to you, I'm not in a hurry to mention it to anybody else. Like, say, Loki."

"I doubt it would weigh very heavily on his conscience," Sif sighs. "But I am pleased to hear that the Son of Coul lives. Thor was deeply saddened by his death."

"We all were," Natasha replies.

Sif leverages herself off the bed, stretching her side carefully, happily finding that Lyfia's healing techniques are as swift and effective as ever. In a day or so, perhaps less, she should be fully recovered.

"Must have been bad," Natasha observes. "You don't seem like the kind of person who stops to rest for the hell of it."

Sif gives her a grim smile. "I made a stupid mistake. It will not happen again."

"Well, when you're feeling up to it," Natasha says, walking to the door, "I'd love to see what you've got."

"I look forward to it," Sif promises. "Perhaps when we have won this battle? I admit that I am intrigued by these weapons that you carry."

"The feeling's mutual," Natasha says, and with one last nod toward Sif's swords, she takes her leave.

+

The room to which Loki is escorted is small and over-bright, not unlike the room where he found Thor when he had come to Midgard to inform his brother of their father's untimely demise. They leave him alone for some time, but just when he has grown bored enough to begin contemplating escape, Stark's voice filters into the room.

"Hey there, Voldemort. While you're waiting, we thought you might like to know that we've figured out how to track those little copies of yours. So if you were thinking about taking any spontaneous vacations, you might make other plans."

When Thor arrives, he says little: more to the point, he does not speak at all, but merely sits in the chair opposite Loki, neither moving nor speaking but simply staring at the wall behind Loki, who does his best to look bored and disinterested and utterly unaffected by Thor's arrival here and Sif's collapse.

He is, of course, every bit as unconcerned as he intends to appear.

"Banner assures me that Sif will be fine," Thor says finally. "If you care at all."

"I do not," Loki lies, and Thor sets his jaw and shakes his head, but lapses into silence once more.

"And you?" Loki says, after it becomes clear that Thor has little else to say. "Have you abandoned the Realm Eternal, or is our victory already so assured that you have come here to visit, oh, what _is_ that mortal's name?"

"Asgard is still under attack," Thor growls, ignoring Loki's jibes. "I have come to ask my friends here for aid."

"It is a sad day when Asgard must ask assistance from _mortals_ ," Loki says, and that, at least, garners more of a response from Thor, who glowers at him for several long moments before undertaking to make a reply.

"What does it matter to you, brother?" Thor demands, clenching his fists. "Our people fight and die in a battle that you began, while you hide away here."

"Sif brought me here," Loki replies, spreading his hands. "I did not choose to come."

"She would not have needed to, if we could trust you to fight alongside your _family_ ," Thor says.

"It kills you, doesn't it, that we are not family in any sense of the word," Loki says, determined to prod at this tender spot until Thor finally breaks. "I think it might trouble you more than it troubles me, in point of fact. Tell me: has it kept you awake at night, wondering if any of those memories you seem to treasure are real, wondering how you could have ever earned your place as Asgard's fiercest warrior when sentiment blinded you from realizing that for years unnumbered you let your enemy know all of your secrets."

"Enough!" Thor shouts, pounding the table. "I will not discuss this or any other matter with you further. Speak your poisonous words to empty air if you must, but I will not hear them and I will not return them."

The door slides emphatically shut behind him when he goes, leaving Loki smiling viciously into the empty air.

+

"I have called this meeting because it has come to my attention that Asgard has been attacked by the same creatures that attacked Earth," Fury says, looking around at the assembled Avengers. Hill stands next to him, arms crossed. "Thor wants you to go fight with him."

"If they need our help, they've got it," Steve says firmly. "Why are we still discussing this?"

"One of them came down here and tried to set himself up as our lord and master," Fury counters. "And now he's back with his tail between his legs because he pissed off the wrong people. Forgive me if I don't want us in the middle of that."

"Thor is part of this team," Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Loki isn't," Fury says.

"The Director has a point," Bruce says, breaking the uncomfortable silence that follows Fury's remark.

"He does," Clint says, nodding at Bruce. "But if Thanos wants the staff back, it won't take him very long to notice that Asgard doesn't have it," he points out, shrugging, and Natasha nods and picks up where he left off.

"He's going to come looking for it," Natasha says. "I say we take the fight to him before he can."

"I agree," Hill says. "Another fight on Earth means more casualties on Earth. I'm not saying Asgardians are expendable, but we have a duty to our own people first."

"They had to open a portal between the worlds to get here," Fury reminds her. "They don't have that capability without the tesseract. It could take them thousands of years to reach Earth, even with their advanced technology."

"We don't know how advanced their tech is, do we? And if they take the tesseract from Asgard?" Steve asks. "What then?"

"The tesseract is here," Fury says. "And it will remain here until I say otherwise."

Tony, who has chosen that moment to waltz in, rolls his eyes at that. "What, we're supposed to say, sorry, god of thunder, you'll have to hitch a ride home with a passing comet?"

"Loki got here without it," Fury shrugs. "Which leads me to my next question: who the _fuck_ thought it was a good idea to let him wander around unattended?"

"That would be me, Director Fury," Phil says, stepping quickly into the room behind Tony. "Loki is under constant video surveillance, and now that Stark has programmed JARVIS to differentiate between his physical body and his copies; he's not going anywhere. Frankly, sir, I'd rather have him wandering around than sitting in a cell with nothing to do but scheme."

"Hill?" Fury says, raising an eyebrow.

"Agent Coulson cleared it with me first," Hill replies. "It's a good point. I don't like it any more than you do, sir, but it seemed better than letting Loki sit around with idle hands. He's not unattended, either: Thor and Sif can keep an eye on him until they return home."

"Fine. But if his Norse babysitters lose track of his ass, I'm holding both of you responsible," Fury says, glaring at both of them in turn.

"And what are we doing about Thor's request?" Steve says. "He's been here for days now, and that only leaves him a few more before Asgard is under attack again. He deserves an answer."

"We could just hand Loki over to Thanos," Tony proposes. Across the room, Natasha, Clint, and  
Hill exchange a look that clearly says they don't disagree, but Steve's already shaking his head.

"Look, I don't like the guy any better than you do, Tony, but he's still Thor's brother," Steve says. "Not saying he doesn't deserve what he gets, but I don't want to be the person that gives it to him."

They all begin to talk at once, speaking over one another, louder and louder, building to a dull crescendo until Fury taps the desk, hard, just once.

"Settle down," Phil says quietly.

"I didn't mean we _actually_ give him over," Tony clarifies. He looks pointedly at Phil. "But what about a little sleight of hand?"

Hill frowns. "LMD? Will that even work with Asgardian physiology? Or whatever the hell Loki is?"

"Probably not permanently, but it might buy us some time to figure out how to beat the Big Bad," Clint says thoughtfully.

"You say that like you're going," Fury says. "Who's guarding the Earth in your absence?"

"I nominate Pepper," Tony says, just as Steve speaks up to say, "Sam can do it."

"Now that's one hell of a sexy team," Tony remarks.

"What about Colonel Rhodes?" Clint asks. "He can suit up while we're gone, right?"

"Rhodey? Absolutely not," Tony says. "Rhodey's coming with us."

"He does have a day job," Natasha says wryly.

"So we'll get him a doctor's note," Tony replies. "I want Rhodey, Rhodey comes with us."

"Fine," Steve cuts in. "So, who's with us on this mission? Hands up if you're in."

"What is this, superhero kindergarten?" Tony asks, but he raises his hand anyway, along with everyone else except Bruce.

"Doctor Banner?" Steve queries, and Bruce shakes his head.

"I'll stay here," Bruce offers. "I'll get more done in the lab while Tony's out."

"The thrill is gone, huh," Tony sighs. "Well, you still have to help me assemble this LMD, buttercup. You're not off the hook."

"We'll have to get Loki's cooperation," Bruce says. "Good luck with that."

"Send Sif and her sword down to the lab and she can _motivate_ him if he gets too unbearable," Tony replies.

"If?" Natasha snorts.

"When," Clint corrects. "And you might not need Sif if you've got Doctor Banner."

"Fine, okay, sure, but please, have the Not-So Jolly Green Giant avoid the imported tile this time," Tony says, wincing.

"No promises," Bruce says.

"Director?" Steve says, looking over at Fury. "I hope you think this is an acceptable compromise, because this is what we're doing."

"You'll take Coulson with you and you'll be back here in one _Earth_ week," Fury says, tapping the table. "Understood?"

"Yes," Steve says. "Okay, team. Let's get to it. Tony? Doctor Banner? We need that LMD up and running ASAP. Natasha, if you can reach Sam and Pepper and let them know they need to come in, we need to talk protocol. They should probably have more people on hand, just in case, so I'll call Carol, and Clint, do you think you can convince Kate..."

He's still giving directions as they exit the room, and the remaining SHIELD agents exchange an amused glance.

"Not bad, sir," Phil says.

"Agreed," Hill adds. "We get to test the dynamics of the new teams and they think it was all their idea."

"The protection of _this_ planet is my top priority," Fury says. "I don't care who's defending it as long as I know they'll do the job."

"Speaking of that: Coulson, how did it go with Parker?" Hill asks.

"Not a match, at least not just yet," Phil says. He looks over at Fury. "And the Winter Soldier, sir?"

"That remains to be seen," Fury replies. "Wilson owes me a report by the end of the day."

The other two exchange glances.

"Are we informing Captain Rogers of the developments?" Phil asks.

"No," Fury says. "Let's not distract him from his mission."

+

"Sorry to say this, Thor, but your brother is still a dickhead," Clint observes, watching through the clear glass doors of the lounge as Sif and Loki pass by on their way to one of the labs. "Your friend Sif is a different story."

"I like her," Natasha agrees. "I have been promised a sparring match when all of this is over, and I am really looking forward to it, because I know all your tricks by now, Barton."

"Are you calling me boring?"

"If the shoe fits," she grins, propping her feet up on the back of his chair.

Clint presses a hand over his heart and pouts over at her. "That hurts, Romanov. And good luck with that match, by the way, because I think you'll have to trick Loki again to get near her," he says, and Natasha snorts. Clint looks at Thor and frowns curiously. "How long has that been going on, anyway?"

"The Lady Sif is a formidable warrior, and I am certain she will keep her promise to fight with you, Natasha," Thor replies. "But I do not understand your question, Clinton."

"Your brother and Sif," Clint clarifies. "Not that I blame the lady if she hasn't talked about it. That's like, a whole new level of shitty ex, huh."

"Not any worse than Budapest," Natasha remarks.

"I made some terrible romantic decisions before Phil, Natasha, but that's not even the same plane of existence. Literally."

"That pair of assassins did try to kill you, though," Natasha points out.

"Yeah, but they were pretty firmly against genocide, which is a point for their side of the scoreboard," Clint says, frowning. "Not sure where they stood on possessing people."

"I think that could go either way," Natasha says thoughtfully.

"Right?"

"I know I do not always understand your customs, friends," Thor says, "but I do not think you are correct about this."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Right. She's risking her life for this guy why, exactly?"

"We place a high value on loyalty in Asgard, and none know that more than those who have sworn a warrior's oath," Thor says proudly.

"Loyalty? Sure, but that kind of loyalty runs a lot deeper than duty, no matter how seriously you take it," Clint says, sharing a meaningful look with Natasha. "And as weird as it is, I think that road goes both ways, or she'd be dead now and we wouldn't be having this conversation. Trust me."

"I wouldn't bet against him," Phil says, slipping into the room from the other side and heading directly for the fresh pot of coffee on the counter. "Clint's got good eyes. He's usually not wrong about these things."

"Not about badass ladies, anyway, am I right," Clint says, and Natasha slips him a low five and hops up on the counter, the heels of her boots clicking against the cabinets.

"God, that's gonna be a good fight," she says.

+

"I am familiar with this manner of trickery," Sif says, frowning as she surveys Stark's work. It is eerie, watching this thing that is Loki and yet is not take shape in front of her. "I do not think it will fool the Chitauri."

"This is not one of my illusions," Loki says sullenly, looking up from where he sits, sulking, in the corner of the laboratory.

"For once, he's not lying. And hey, it fooled you, right," Tony says, pointing at Loki. "I should put that on the advertisement. Stark's Life Model Decoys: guaranteed to hoodwink even the God of Mischief."

"Thank you," Loki snipes. "How much more of this am I to be made to endure?"

Tony taps his chin thoughtfully with the flat metal end of one of his tools. "We've gotta give it a personality, but I think we can handle that without you here. The day I can't program in a little textbook narcissism is the day I need to tender my resignation as Earth's most intelligent and attractive billionaire. You can go. Actually, please, get him out of here," he finishes, winking at Sif. "You can stay, though."

"Oh, but who will mind me if she does not," Loki says, standing. "Shall we?"

+

"Something's been bothering me, Hawkeye," Clint says, frowning.

"What's that, Hawkeye?" Kate asks.

"Thor said the Chitauri just arrived one day a week ago," Clint says. "No portal opened, they just showed up. Must have been a hell of a long trip. So here's my question: how long had they been on it?"

"Hmm," Kate says. "Good question. You're thinking this has been in the works since before Loki's attack on Earth?"

"Only one way to find out," Clint says, propping his boots up on the table. "Means we go to Asgard."

"Ah," Kate grins. "This is the part where you ask me for that favor."

"This is why I like you, Katie," he says. "Your powers of observation."

+

The sun is setting over the city when Loki comes to find her, standing on a balcony outside the room they have assigned her.

"Banner has finished with you for the day, I take it," Sif says, without bothering to turn around. She would know the whisper of his steps anywhere, and even with the noise of the Midgardian transports rising up from the streets below, she hears him when he moves.

"To my everlasting joy," he says sourly, coming to stand beside her. She leans against the cool metal of the railing and watches his face for a moment, trying to decipher what is written there, something she used to be able to do at a glance.

They lost all of that long ago, and though she has little hope that they can find it again, there are these rare moments when she feels that perhaps she might be willing to try. Those moments may have been steadily dwindling in number over the centuries, but here they are, so she searches for something to say.

"Something troubles you?" she asks finally.

"Aside from the murdering hordes of Chitauri chasing me across the multiverse, demanding payment for my misdeeds?" he shrugs. "No, nothing troubles me."

She takes a breath, determined not to give in to the temptation of sniping at him. She settles for knocking her shoulder against his arm and shaking her head at him.

"It is curious to me, however," he says, as they watch the people hurrying to and fro on the streets beneath them, "that these people are giving us aid at all."

"Us?" she queries, raising an eyebrow.

He pushes his own shoulder against hers and clarifies, "Me."

"They are warriors," she replies, "and there is a war to be fought, for regardless of who began it, it will claim the lives of those who cannot protect themselves, and they have a duty to those people. What more explanation do you need?"

He hums thoughtfully in response, but says nothing, and they watch the sun set in silence, Sif pulling her borrowed clothing a bit more tightly around her shoulders when the wind pushes an unexpected rush of chilly air across the balcony. Loki seems unaffected by the cold, which she supposes should not be much of a surprise. As the light fades, he holds out his hand, lazily moving his fingers until a golden ball of light sits in his palm, sliding back and forth as he twists his wrist.

"I have not seen you do that in a long time," she observes.

"I did not know you remembered seeing me do this at all," he says, sending the light spiraling over her head to rest there for a moment like a crown of starlight before he moves his hand and calls it back, and she smiles over at him.

"We were children," she says, remembering, "but I have not forgotten the first bit of magic you ever showed me."

"Was it this?" he asks, frowning, bending the light around so it circles between their hands. "I would have thought it was something a bit more _useful_."

"It was this," she says firmly. "And light is always useful."

"Oh, indeed," he agrees, a little too easily, and the light leaves their hands behind and trails up over her head once more. "This is a terribly useful spell."

"You look far too amused with your handiwork," she grumbles, but she is smiling as she says it nonetheless. "What have you done?"

"I've only made myself useful," he grins, and she turns to look at her reflection in the sliding glass of the doors behind them and laughs at what she sees: he has shaped the golden glow of this conjured spell-light into a reasonable facsimile of his ridiculous helmet, its horns curving over her head. Her mirth must be infectious; even Loki cannot help but chuckle a bit. It is such a relief to laugh, even more of a relief than fighting has been.

"Leave it, if you like," she laughs, when he raises his hand.

"I would, but now that I see it, I don't know that it suits you," he remarks.

"Oh? And what would, exactly?"

"I confess that I do not know," he says, his fingers calling the light back to his waiting hand, where he turns it over, thoughtful. "There must be something in all the nine realms that is suitably fierce and frightening to stand as a symbol for the Lady Sif."

"Perhaps there isn't," she says proudly. "Perhaps I am my own symbol."

"That you are, my lady," he says, inclining his head toward her, momentarily deferential. "That you are."

The silence that falls between them is the most genial quietude they have had occasion to live through in the last thousand years, and though she enjoys the change, it brings with it a certain necessary melancholy. It should have always been thus. This alone of all things could have been _simple_ , and for a very short time it was.

"Where have you been," she asks, less a question than it is a lament.

"I've been here the whole time," he replies, frowning over at her.

"No," she says, and shakes her head. "No, you really haven't been."

He seems to turn that over as he does the ball of light, considering the implications of it as she watches his face in the dim light. "Did you miss me?"

"I think I did," she says quietly, and they say no more.

+

"Let's get this party started," Sam says, tossing a few file folders onto the conference table. "Steve wanted us to discuss protocol."

"Bless his heart," Carol says fondly. She shakes her head. "I'm being ordered around by a Captain. Does rank literally mean nothing anymore, Agent Wilson? Or are we just calling you Falcon, these days?"

"You're not in Kansas anymore, Colonel," Sam jokes, and she gives him a look, but she pulls up a chair anyway. "Welcome to the Avengers Initiative."

"Who else is coming to this party, and how long will all of this take?" Carol asks. "I heard there was a goddess of war wandering around, and I want to pick a fight before she leaves."

"I'm sure she'd enjoy the distraction, Carol," Pepper says, stepping quickly in and pulling up a chair next to Sam. "I'm sorry, I meant to be on time, but you know Tony."

"It's fine. We're still waiting for Kate," Sam tells her.

Kate's voice drifts down from the ceiling. "Hey, hey, say it to my face."

Sam raises an eyebrow at the nearest air duct. "Seriously, Bishop?"

"I have it on good authority that this is how a Hawkeye is supposed to roll," Kate says, leaning out of the vent. "You want me at the table, boss?"

"If it's not too much trouble," he says sarcastically.

"This is gonna be fun," Carol grins.

"You know it," Kate says, dropping down into a chair.

"Well," Pepper says, clearing her throat and looking around at the other three. "Let's talk about saving the world, shall we?"

+

They should have departed this morning, but some manner of erroneous calculation regarding Stark's decoy of Loki has delayed them. Sif is frustrated by the setback, eager as she is to be home, fighting alongside her friends. She had awoken full of the reckless energy she always feels before battle, and with no place else to put it she chooses to expend it on Stark's training equipment rather than Stark himself. This room is hardly the familiar training yard of her youth, but nevertheless it is well-stocked enough for a day's use. After a few hours, Captain Rogers stops by to assure her that there are, indeed, extra punching bags, should she need them.

"I used to carry in my own, but Tony's got strong opinions on brands for workout equipment," he says, smiling sheepishly as he presses a button on the wall, which retracts to reveal an additional closet full of weaponry and training accoutrements. "Listen, I know you're ready to get home, and I'm sorry we're stalled out for another day. We ship out tomorrow no matter what. On that, you have my word."

"Thank you," she says.

"And if you need a sparring partner," he offers, "I wouldn't mind the practice."

"If you think you can keep up with me, mortal," she teases, pulling a pair of staves from the closet and tossing one in his direction, "you are more than welcome to attempt it."

"It would be an honor to try, ma'am," he replies, and with a sly smile and a quick jab to his ribs, she sets to work at putting him through his paces. By the time he is called away by someone named Sam for _debriefing_ , his breathing is labored and his body is finally starting to tire, but on the whole he has kept up with her much better than expected. She tells him so, and he nods his thanks as he packs away the weapons they've been using.

"My apologies if your friend finds your stamina somewhat reduced," Sif says, grinning as he blushes, and not just from the exertion of their match.

"I'll pass that along," he says, and she laughs.

Some time after Captain Rogers has departed, someone-- Sif suspects it is Director Fury, but she doesn't see much-- escorts Loki in, though _shoves in_ would be a more adequate description, she suspects, judging from the way he stumbles a bit and glowers over his shoulder as he wanders over to where she is standing.

"You haven't been causing trouble, have you?" Sif asks, resuming her work at the punching bag.

"Perish the thought," he drawls. "Thor has been my keeper, these past several hours, but it is awfully dull to pass the time in silence."

She frowns. "Thor is still not speaking to you, I take it."

"Not a word," he says.

Sif reaches out to stop the bag's swinging with one hand. "You betrayed us," she says, with a calmness that surprises her, "and now Asgard is under attack and our people are dying. Do you think Thor has no right to be upset with you?"

"I betrayed Asgard?" he says, with a bitter laugh that is so cold she feels the chill of it in her blood. "Oh, I do not think so, lady: Asgard betrayed _me_."

"How?" she demands, slamming her fist against the hanging bag in front of her. "How did we ever betray you?"

"I was your king," he snaps. "You speak so beautifully of _loyalty_ , but you may as well accept that when it came to it, in your moment of truth, you were every bit as faithless as you think I am. Is it any wonder that our armies fail, that _you_ failed, when you faced the Destroyer? You are all traitors to the crown and you deserve whatever those foul creatures do to you."

"You sat upon the throne, but you were _never_ king," she snarls. "You are nothing but a bitter, jealous fool."

"Who are you to decide what I am? Who are any of you? You are all of you beneath me!"

"There is such a thing as a _line of succession_!" she shouts.

"Who was in line if it was not me? Father was dying, Thor was banished--"

"At your hand," she interrupts.

"He wrapped the noose around his own neck," Loki says.

"And did you not do much the same? At least Thor learned something from it! What have you learned, except how to hate us more than you already did?"

"I have learned that there is _nothing_ I could ever hope to do that would _convince the rest of you_ that I was even half as worthy as that boorish pig you will one day have for a king."

"Where does this bitterness come from?" she demands, frustrated almost to the point of violence. "Tell me: what are my sins against you, then?"

"Shall I list them for you? Surely you can enumerate them well enough on your own."

"I warned you to stay away from that subject," she says, and he gives her a vicious smile.

"You did ask," he says, shrugging.

"If your life has been difficult, you have made it that way," she snaps, all of the resentment of the last several thousand years finally overtaking her before she can stop it. "You grew up a privileged princeling in Asgard, you would have done the same on Jotunheim. Where is the tragedy in that if it is not of your own making?"

"They didn't want me," he growls.

"There are those who did, once," she says, more softly than she intends to, and before he can make some cutting reply she smacks her hand against the ropes of the nearby boxing ring and turns away from him. "But enough of this. I would no sooner give you weapons to use against me than I would retread paths that we both left behind long ago."

"Thor is here," he says, his voice stopping her as she makes for the door. "Surely you have fulfilled your duty to my mother, lady, why have you not asked to return home to fight and die with all the rest of them?"

She whirls to face him. "How would I return, save to wait and go with the others? I would not ask your aid, and there is no bifrost, thanks to you."

" _I_ did not destroy it," he says. "That was my sainted brother."

"You are impossible," she shouts, and though it is a simple enough remark and not at all unexpected from him, something within her breaks upon hearing it. She grabs the closest thing to her hands that can be used as a weapon, a long metal pole intended for weights, and advances with all deliberate speed towards him, driven by a blind rage that will only be satisfied by battle and bloodshed. This time she is the one who cares little for the rules of this engagement or the consequences of disregarding them; this time he is the one who will wonder if he will survive. She does not have it in her at present to decide if he will. Is it even treason, to kill a traitor?

He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can she sweeps the pole forward and sideways into his legs so that he lands roughly on the floor.

"I will suffer no more words from you," she snarls, and when he blinks up at her it gives her a fierce rush of satisfaction to see a flicker of genuine fear on his face before he pushes it away and replaces it with a condescending sneer.

The lights flicker and dim, and when she can see again he stands in front of her, dagger in hand, but she knows him far better than that. She is all instinct and no thought as she heaves the pole backwards, twisting it in her hands when she feels it connect with the solid mass of his body; then she turns and slams it hard against his shoulder, the unmistakable ugly sound of bone popping from of its socket accompanied by a surprised yelp from Loki, who quickly sidesteps her next attempted blow and slips past, leaving her to follow, weapon in hand, smashing aside every piece of equipment that he tries to shove in her way.

+

"Should we do something about this?" Bruce says, gesturing to the monitor, and Natasha looks over his shoulder for just a moment before she gives him a shrug.

"Nah," she says. "Let her kick him around for a while. She'll feel better."

"Are you kidding? We can't let this continue," Tony says, leaning between them to watch the fight. "JARVIS. Give the lady a soundtrack to kick this guy's ass to. Something with a good bass line, at least 180 bpm, but please, no Oakenfold; this is not a meeting of some high school fight club. And somebody get us some more popcorn, this is quality television."

"As you wish, sir," JARVIS says impassively.

"You can't have my popcorn," Rhodey says, holding the bowl just out of reach.

"You wanna put on the suits? You wanna go that way?" Tony asks. "Because I will absolutely kick your ass again for popcorn."

"Again?" Rhodey laughs. "When did you kick my ass before?"

"Will you two shut up? This is getting good," Natasha says, stealing a handful of Rhodey's popcorn.

+

Loki is certain of very little, but what he does know is that at the moment he fears Thanos and his promise of unimaginable pain far less than he fears the wrath of the Lady Sif. The tortures that Thanos has devised for him are no doubt designed to inflict pain beyond measure, but this pain at Sif's hands is _intimate_ in a way that nothing else could be. He is beginning to suspect that she may kill him if she catches him, and all he can do is dance out of her reach until her rage is spent.

It is a lovely dance, or it would be, if the music was better, or if she weren't trying so terribly hard to end his life.

He's out of daggers in short order, reduced to flinging whatever spells or objects he can in her general direction with his uninjured arm. They've destroyed half the room by now, no doubt, and still she comes for him, her jaw set and her eyes locked on him. For once in his long life he is questioning the wisdom of his particular brand of provocation. He has pushed her over some kind of emotional precipice, and he does not know if he will still be drawing breath when she returns from it.

He lands a few blows, once with his fist, which earns him another jarring blow to the ribs with that damned pole, and once with one of the smaller weights that now lie strewn about the room. It connects with her face with a dull thudding noise, but she barely even slows down, ignoring the blood streaming from her lip. They fight and run and fight again until they are back in the place where they began, both of them bleeding and battered, but Sif clearly closer to victory than he. She gets one more excruciating blow in against his injured shoulder and he falls to his knees, tired, finally, of fighting, or at least, tired of fighting with her.

Sif shoves her boot against his chest, forcing him down to the floor, the heel of her boot sliding up and up until it rests hard against his throat and he has to gasp for breath, the sound of it ragged and hopeless in his own ears. If it had to end here, he is glad at least that it is her doing and not some mindless drone of the Chitauri. He regrets very little, save perhaps the missed opportunity to carry out the rest of his plans. 

But then she looks at him and blinks, shaking her head, the dark waves of her hair lapping at her shoulders as she does. Finally, she seems to really see him again through the violent red haze of her anger. She drops her weapon; the metal makes a dull thud on the ground where it falls. He is genuinely surprised to still be drawing breath; he has seen the destructive power of her anger before, but never like that. It might have been a relief, had she killed him, but if that is to happen it will not be today.

For her part, Sif looks astonished, worried, perhaps, at her own capacity for rage, but after a moment she closes her eyes and shakes her head once more, biting back what he assumes might have been an apology, settling instead for stepping back to let him stand. She offers him no aid, and he grimaces as he gets to his feet; she has most certainly dislocated one of his shoulders, and he still feels the hard bite of the end of that damn pole against his stomach. In retrospect, that illusion had not been his best move: Sif has seen that trick far too many times to have been taken in by it now.

With a heavy sigh, she wipes a smear of blood away from her lips, then steps back over to him and lays a hand on his injured shoulder. He gives her a nod and then another grimace as she shoves it back in place, and together they stand and survey the damage they've done to each other and to the room as the horrible pounding music-- Stark's doing, no doubt, and surely somewhere all these foolish mortals are dismayed to see him still breathing-- slowly fades away. Half of the lights hang haphazardly from the ceiling, wires sending showers of sparks down here and there, and most if not all of the equipment in the room looks to be a total loss. There are weights embedded deep in the wall in random patterns and all the ropes surrounding the boxing ring are tangled or snapped entirely. As they look on, one of the lights falls to the floor with a resounding crash.

"All of this for love of Asgard, my lady?"

"Not only for Asgard," she says, and there is a mournful quality to her voice that touches something he thought he had killed long ago.

"What would you have me do, then?" he asks, looking over at her.

"Come home," she says firmly, and he frowns in response and wipes a mix of blood and perspiration from his brow.

"Why does everyone keep saying that to me?"

"What else are we to say to someone who is lost?" She reaches for his hand, but he jerks it away.

"I may not be where you want me to be, lady, but that does not mean I am _lost_ ," he snaps.

"Look around you," she says. "What did you hope to accomplish here, with these people?"

"I suppose that I expected them to be docile cows like the residents of Asgard," he grumbles, and that isn't strictly true, but he doesn't intend to admit all of it to her, not now, and possibly not ever.

"These people have such short lives," she says, ignoring his jab at their people. "Did you truly expect them to give what little time they have to you?"

"And why not?" he scoffs, bristling. "I suppose it would have been different, had it been _Thor_."

"You misunderstand me," she sighs. "They would no sooner bend and kneel for me, or for Thor, or anyone."

" _Thor_ ," he repeats, spitting his brother's name out of his mouth in disgust. "Everyone has always done everything that Thor has ever asked, _including_ you."

"That old quarrel again?" she asks.

"Why not?" he says bitterly. "We have never settled it to my satisfaction."

"How could we have done? You had all of me that I could think to give you, and my faith and my _loyalty_ besides, and still you did not believe me," she says, and her words should be angry, but the fight has gone out of her, it seems. This is not anger; this is grief, real and raw. But though it brings him no small measure of satisfaction to have caused it, it also brings with it something else, something different. It has a name, this new thing, but he has not felt it for so long that he barely remembers what to call it.

"And now?" he asks, ignoring whatever this feeling is, this curious thing that is building in intensity the longer he stands here looking at her, threatening to bring a sincere apology to his lips for the first time in centuries. He closes his mouth and presses his lips together before words with actual meaning can escape them, all unbidden.

Sif looks at him tiredly. "Can we not have something new? I confess that I would prefer it to be honest, but if it must be a lie, Loki, let it at least be novel. Are you not _bored_?"

"Are you?"

"Of this?" she asks, waving her hand between them. "This eternal argument over my choices, my allegiance? I have told you before and told you truly, my love and my loyalty will always go first to Asgard, but after that..."

"Sentiment," he scoffs, dismissing it with a wave of his hand, as though he could push the emotional weight of her words away along with it.

But Sif is a better strategist than that, and she will not let him skitter away so easily. He really might have expected as much, given the subtle change in her stance, the proud line of her jaw in profile and the sureness in the way she holds herself.

"If it means so little to you, why has it been the sole subject of your scorn, these many centuries? Why the endless insinuations that the rumors about my betrothal to Thor were more true than not? Rumors you started, by the way, and if you think I do not know that you did so, you are more of a fool than I thought."

He opens his mouth to deny it, to turn it into something else, something that is anyone else's fault and most especially hers, but whatever exhaustion she had been feeling seems to have passed on to him, and suddenly it is the most burdensome thing in all the realms to redraw these battle lines. Perhaps if he does not, it will gain him something different, at least for a night.

"Something new, you said," he sighs.

"I did," she says, nodding.

"Must it always be Asgard first?" he asks, and she nods again.

"I took an oath," she reminds him, but she steps closer regardless, an entirely different sort of intent in her eyes now. This may never end well, all his careful planning aside, but it will be a pleasant distraction in the interim.

"Was there something you wanted?"

"I think," she says, watching his face intently as she reaches up for him, "I think if we don't say anything more, then for the moment, at least, it will be all right."

+

"This is an entirely different kind of entertainment now," Tony remarks. He cocks his head and stares at the screen. "Oh, to have that kind of flexibility."

"Yeah, okay, I'm out," Rhodey says.

"Same," Natasha agrees. She looks over at Rhodey curiously. "Hey. That new action flick is out, you wanna?"

"I'm there," Rhodey says. "Did you see the trailer for that? I can't believe the things people try to pass off as an F-16."

Natasha shakes her head and makes a tsking noise. "Bruce, you in?"

"No thank you," Bruce says, shuffling back over to a lab table and adjusting his glasses. "You two are unbearable."

"We have a commitment to onscreen accuracy that is appropriate and attractive," Natasha says. "Pepper agrees with me."

"We should call her," Rhodey says, as they head for the door. "Isn't half of this film set on Wall Street?"

"You know how she feels about inaccurate portrayals of the stock market," Natasha says, pulling out her phone. "I'll tell her to meet us. What about your girlfriend? She in?"

"His girlfriend who lives in Canada?" Tony snickers, but Rhodey ignores him.

"She's at a conference," Rhodey says. "And I think she agrees with Bruce."

"People just don't appreciate fun anymore," Natasha laments.

+

This is a terrible idea, and Sif knows it. This never ends well, and with the way things have been progressing recently, it is entirely possible that this time it will end with someone's death.

Sif knows all of this. But all of her pre-battle energy has not yet been spent, and damn him and his clever fingers, he does remember precisely how to keep her interest.

"I suppose it was just a matter of time," Loki remarks, leering up at her. "Why else would you agree to help me?"

"Please," she grumbles, pushing him back down onto the mat, her hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, "do not ruin this for me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, and he does at least quiet down after that, setting to work on undoing the strange fastenings of her own clothes.

Sif will say this much for this strange Midgardian clothing: it is far easier to remove than armor, and they have most of it off by the time the doors to the room swing open, revealing both of them to the surprised eyes of Thor and the amused eyes of Clint Barton.

"Friend Barton," Thor says, clapping Clint on the back with such force that he nearly tumbles against a rack of weights, "it appears that you were correct."

"Like Phil said, I'm not wrong about these things," Clint smirks.

"Do you _mind_?" Sif demands. She slaps a hand over Loki's mouth before he can add anything further, and he nips at her fingers but is blessedly silent.

"Not really," Clint says, shrugging. "Lady, aliens making out in the gym is pretty mild when you've seen the kind of shit I have." He turns to Thor and jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the hallway. "C'mon, buddy. There's a handball court down the hall, I don't _think_ there was anybody fucking in there five minutes ago."

"Lead on, my friend," Thor responds, turning once to look at the two of them once more, a strange, thoughtful frown on his face, and Sif stares defiantly back until he gives her a nod and follows Clint out of the room. Whatever Thor has to say about any of this, he can say it to her later; her choices may not be the best, but they are still her own.

"Well," Loki says, when she releases his mouth, "I suppose now they know."

"Do shut up," she says, and before he can say another word, she leans down to stop his mouth with her own.

+

As Steve had promised, they do depart the next day. They leave not from Avengers Tower, but from the bridge of the helicarrier, which hovers invisibly over the city. 

"As previously agreed, Falcon and Rescue are heading up the team in your absence," Hill notes. "If you're all still committed to this mission."

There's a chorus of affirmative answers from the team and from Sif, while Loki and his unnervingly lifelike copy roll their eyes.

"As long as we don't leave Earth undefended by an exceptionally attractive person in a flying red suit, I'm cool with it," Tony says, saluting Pepper.

"Thanks, Tony," Sam says sarcastically, and Pepper laughs.

"Red?" Rhodey says, gesturing down at the silver metal of the suit he wears.

"Did I hurt your feelings, honey?" Tony asks. "I'll buy you a new weapons system for Christmas to make up for it."

"You know just what to say to a guy," Rhodey jokes.

"Good hunting out there, Cap," Sam says, saluting. 

Steve returns the salute, a proud smile on his face. "Same to you, Sam." 

"Redwing can't fly love letters to Asgard, right?" Clint snickers, and Sif watches curiously as Steve blushes a deep red.

"We send emails now," Steve squeaks, and Fury glares at everyone until they stop speaking.

"If you're going to do this, get your asses off my bridge already," Fury says.

"Yes, sir," Steve answers. He nods at Thor. "I think we're ready."

"Very well," Thor says, extending one end of the tesseract's case toward Steve, who grips the handle tightly.

"Circle up, everybody," Steve says, motioning to his teammates with his free hand. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am given to understand that Lyfia is a mountain, but like Loki, I do what I want. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Asgard resumes, but with Loki left more or less to his own devices, Thanos and the Chitauri may not be the only enemies that Thor, Sif, and the Avengers have to fight, and saving the day doesn't always mean that a win feels like a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Please mind the warnings in the tags and the notes on every chapter; they will change as the story progresses. There will be **canon-typical violence** throughout. This chapter also has **implied character death** and **Loki being Loki**. 
> 
> **General notes** : If you noticed that the chapter count went up, you're right. I just posted, and this is crazy, but there's an epilogue coming, so read it maybe?

They arrive in an Asgard that is not quite the shimmering, proud city Sif left a scant few weeks ago. Smoke rises from many of the buildings, still standing, but badly damaged. The once green and golden fields are scored and burnt, and everywhere they turn she sees her people wounded or weeping. It does her heart some small measure of good to know that soon these wretched creatures will answer for their crimes at the end of her blade, but even that will not be enough to recover lives lost. She grips her sword tightly in her hand as Thor turns to address the group.

"My friends," Thor says, gesturing to the city beyond, "come, let us find my father."

The king is not in Gladsheim, not this day. They find him walking among the wounded, giving aid and comfort to the fallen where he can. There are many who have been injured, too many; even Loki seems sobered at the sight of all of them spread out across the fields, though still he bridles when Sif and Thor kneel before the Allfather, their hands over their hearts. Their friends awkwardly settle into a similar pose, Stark muttering something to the effect of, "When in Rome," to Rhodes, as they kneel. Loki follows suit after a momentary hesitation, and when Sif lifts her head she can see the faintest traces of pride and relief on Odin's face at his wayward son's return. It is perhaps too much to hope that Loki will see it, or, more accurately, that he will see it _for what it is_ , but it is a hope she harbors nonetheless, and it is that vague hope that bolsters her as Odin bids them rise.

"My sons," he says, looking upon each of them in turn. "It is good that you have both returned."

Next to her, Loki shifts his weight around, clearly uncomfortable, but whatever snide remark he might like to make, at least he keeps it to himself. That is one small mercy.

"Asgard stands on the eve of a battle that may well decide her future," Odin continues. "Our armies are depleted and our resources are fewer than ever before. Thanos demands that we return to him the staff he gave to Loki, as well as Loki himself--"

"Well, here I am," Loki sneers. "Why am I not already in chains?"

Thor bristles, but says nothing, and Sif reaches out and grips Loki's wrist, squeezing quickly but with all her considerable strength. He turns to glare at her, but he falls silent.

Odin looks exceedingly tired when next he speaks. "We have resolved not to accede to their demands, but our armies may not repel another attack."

"Yeah, about that," Tony says, pointing to the decoy, which stares coldly back at him, unable to speak with the mask they've put on it, an exact copy of the one Loki wore. "We brought you a present."

"This is a good likeness, but it will not long fool Thanos," Odin observes. 

Tony shrugs. "No, but the readings it gives us should tell us where to hit him, find his weak points."

"And if it finds none?" Odin asks. "What then will you do?"

"Everyone has a weakness," Clint says, and though on the surface he speaks of the villain they face, Sif suspects that he means much more than that, for it is to Loki he looks when he speaks. She turns her head, not out of shame for her decisions, but for fear that they will cloud her judgment as she knows they have cast a shadow over Odin's and Thor's in the past. Natasha catches her eye and Sif sets her jaw and squares her shoulders while Natasha manages to look both approving and amused with only the vaguest movement of one eyebrow.

"My friend Barton speaks truly," Thor says, but Odin sighs heavily.

"The situation is somewhat more dire than you knew when you departed, my son, for I know why Thanos so desires the tesseract. Long ago, there were whispered rumors of a power so great it could turn even the weakest mortal into an omnipotent god. We captured it and split it into six gemstones, and these must all be assembled and worn together in a single gauntlet for the wearer to harness their combined power."

"Where are these gems?" Steve asks.

"Over the ages I have sought them out, and all of them save one are now contained here, in my treasure room in Gladsheim, locked away and sealed with powerful magic. Only with the power of the tesseract can the vault be opened, and the gems retrieved."

Sif, still uneasy from Clint's earlier remark, quietly kicks at Loki with the heel of her boot. She is no fool; she knows exactly the allure that kind of power would have for him and what he might do with it should he have it. His response is to turn a particularly wounded expression toward her, but when she rolls her eyes at that, he gives her a small shrug instead, and she knows her point has been taken.

"What of the missing gem?" Thor queries. "Does Thanos have it?"

"I believe that SHIELD has it, actually," Phil says, stepping forward quietly. "And we'll be holding onto it for the time being."

"That is wise," Thor says. He nods at Phil and motions for him to come closer. "Father, this is the Son of Coul."

"My son has told us all tales of your bravery," Odin says, and Loki makes a rude noise, which everyone ignores. "I thank you for bringing your warriors here, Son of Coul."

"Just doing our jobs," Phil says.

"Then do not let me keep you from your work," Odin replies. He motions to some of the guards, and they step forward and surround the decoy. "If this deception is to go as you intend, we must keep watch over this copy you have made. I will see to that myself."

"And what will you do with me?" Loki demands.

"Your mother wishes to speak with you, if you can stay out of trouble until she arrives," Odin says, sighing. "I never wanted to see you in chains, my son."

Loki sets his jaw and looks away, and Sif sighs heavily but says nothing. Odin takes his leave, then, the guards marching the copy of Loki out the door and down the corridor leading to the cell he had occupied before the attack.

"Well, this is more complicated than we imagined," Natasha says, looking around at the others. "Gemstones of indeterminate power, all in one handy vault. Sounds like fun."

"Yeah, a real party. Collect the whole set for infinite cosmic power," Clint says. He folds his arms across his chest. "What is this, Pokemon?"

Steve frowns at him curiously. "Look, if we keep the tesseract away from Thanos, then Thanos can't get to the gems. That has to be a priority, along with the safety of civilians."

"So we keep the tesseract away from Thanos," Tony says. "End of song, pass me my victory cigar." 

"That may be easier said than done," Steve observes. "But Thor, you and your people have our help as long as you need it."

"Thank you, my friends," Thor says gravely, beckoning to them all, though it does not escape Sif's notice that he looks at her askance, or that he does not look at Loki at all. "Come, I will show you what hospitality may yet be had in the Realm Eternal, and we will discuss our plans for battle."

+

"Why, can it be true? Does the Lady Sif walk among us once more?" Volstagg's voice echoes down the corridor, and Sif turns to face her friends, grinning.

"I heard I was sorely needed," Sif teases, but she embraces her friends with a relief that is hardly in jest. "It seems you cannot win a battle without me."

"Who has slandered the Warriors Three thusly?" Fandral demands, miming a swordfight with an invisible foe. "I will teach him to hold his tongue."

"It is no slander to simply speak the truth," Sif says, laughing.

"You have been too long in Loki's company," Hogun says, and Sif hopes they do not comment upon the blush she can feel rising to her cheeks. "I see he has taught you to do battle with words as well as weapons."

"Indeed," Fandral agrees. "We are glad you have returned, Sif, but surely no one is more pleased than you must be, after such a loathsome assignment."

"It was not so terrible," she says lightly. It is a strange impulse to want to defend Loki, doer of deeds that are all too often indefensible, but she finds herself captive to it all the same.

"Oh, come now," Volstagg says. "You can be honest with us, at least."

"And so I have been. Whatever else Loki may be, he remains the son of Odin and the brother of Thor," Sif says firmly, in a tone that makes it clear she will tolerate no dissenting remarks.

The Warriors Three exchange a curious glance that she cannot fail to notice, but which she chooses to ignore. For good or ill, her lot is cast and her side is chosen. Now she can only stand and defend it, hoping it does not fall.

+

"I thought you would be resting, my lady," Loki says, when Sif finds him lounging on a couch in one of the rooms at the edge of the palace, guards surrounding the only point of entry. He gives every appearance of having been engrossed in a book, but that is not so; he has read this particular one before, and the story is unbelievable in its simplicity.

"On the eve of battle?" she says, shaking her head. "Hardly so. I never could sleep well before a fight. There is much to be done, and I am always restless."

He follows her movements with eyes that betray the desire he has for her, but so long as she is not looking, it is of no consequence. When she turns her attention back to him, he carefully schools his features into nonchalance and sets the book aside. "Did you have _need_ of me for something, then?"

"I would reserve my energy for other things," she says, and he cannot help but look a bit disappointed. She gives him a sly smile. "Victories must be earned, Loki."

"Or bargained for," he points out.

"Only you would think so," she says, sighing, and he only shrugs in response. He has never been overly interested in using weapons if words would suit, for well he knows that they can be sharper than knives. If the rest of Asgard thinks otherwise, it is more than folly, though he is beginning to suspect that Sif, at least, has more of the measure of it.

"I suppose I should thank you; I did overhear you defending my honor," Loki says, picking up his book again.

Sif lets out a laugh that is more like a bark. "What little there is of it," she replies.

"And yet you have gone to such great lengths to preserve it," he says drolly.

"We all have," she says. "I don't know that you've bothered to notice, but we have all gone to considerable effort to ensure that your existence continues."

"Yes, but _why_?" he asks, at least partially out of genuine puzzlement as much as to irritate her. "As you have just taken pains to point out my lack of honor, I confess that I do not understand your efforts."

"We do it for Asgard," she says simply, folding her arms over her chest. "It is your home as well, you know."

"For Asgard only, then," he says sourly.

"For Asgard," she sighs, walking to the windows and staring out across the gardens, "and for a little boy who used to stay up past his bedtime, making spell light so a young maiden could practice her swordfighting without enduring more jeers from the boys she had already bested. For that child, and for his memory, I would do almost anything."

"I see," he murmurs, and she looks over at him sharply.

"Do you?"

"Yes, but I am not certain that _you_ do, for I am not that little boy any longer," he says. "And I do not want to be."

"Why?"

"Why would you ask that of me?" he demands, snapping the book shut. "To live all of it again, to learn once more what it is to be the lesser son, and barely even that; to learn what it is to be nothing but one great monstrous lie."

"I know what you are," she says coolly, "and if it saddens me at all, Loki, it is because I also know what you used to be."

"An afterthought," he snaps. "I fell, and what did you do? No one came for _me_."

"Is that why you let go? So we could chase after you and so prove our devotion?"

He flinches, for that has hit a bit too close to a mark he did not know existed. "Oh, you had already proved _that_ ," he says. "For my memory you would do almost anything, but not, apparently, come to my aid when I most needed you. Then again I am no warrior, so perhaps that matters little."

"We thought you dead. What were we to chase after, a corpse?"

"Would you not have done so for anyone else?" he says. "Would you not have done so for _Thor_?"

"Enough of this. I learned long ago that I could do nothing to save you from your own bitterness," she says. "It is a battle I will always lose. If your demons were real, I would fight them with you, but they are not, and so it is pointless to try. Why I thought we could withstand a day together in Asgard is beyond my understanding."

"Together?" he laughs. "Indeed not, lady. You would barely defend me in front of the Bumblers Three; am I to expect that you would have gone on much longer before you betrayed me again?"

"Is that all we are, to you?" she says, and the line of her jaw and the twist of her lips is angry, but her voice is heavy and sad. "Traitors at worst, and at best a diversion from all the misery you make for yourself?"

"And why not? You are extremely diverting at times," he replies. "Especially in recent memory."

She takes her leave without further comment; the heels of her boots click harshly against the stone floor, and every echoing footfall sounds like a betrayal and a rebuke. His fingers grip the spine of the book as his lips curl in distaste. What he wanted from her, he cannot say; he only wishes that she were not gone, but also that she had not stayed at all, or perhaps that she had never come in the first place. Or, possibly, he had wanted all those things at once.

"What I used to be," he growls to the empty air. He has been a shadow, pale and useless, but in a time not far gone he was a king, and the warm radiance of Gungnir still resonates in his hands. He was tired when he fought with her on Midgard, but here he has new purpose. If she wants light, if she wants something useful, let her have it, and all that comes with it besides. Let her see the true measure of what she has lost. Let all of them see it.

"So be it," he mutters, getting to his feet. He leaves the book behind and follows her angry steps, though he does not retrace them for long. It is the treasure room his feet turn towards, and all the glory it holds. The guards are easy to slip; he has learned much in his time in exile. They should never have trusted him to be anything but this. Everyone has a skill, and this is his: to lie and steal in no one's service but his own.

He had been so very close on Midgard; if those foolish mortals had only left him alone for the space of another moment. Fury had returned before he had a chance to take what was rightfully his, and he'd been forced to switch the copy of the staff with the real thing instead of keeping it for himself, ensuring, at least, that the staff would come with them to Asgard instead of remaining on Earth for safekeeping as they had ever so cleverly planned. But now there is no one to interrupt him, and here it is, the staff, his own royal scepter, its blue gem shining with promise now that his magic is no longer hiding its true nature. Truly it is better than Gungnir, too long the symbol of this realm; it is long past time for some new blood on Asgard's throne.

Sif will be dreadfully disappointed, or perhaps she will only be resigned. Either reaction will be another in a long line of betrayals, and he does not possess the patience to curry favor with traitors. Then again, every king needs a queen, and the gem pulses with promise as he holds the staff in his hands. The copy he places carefully on the stand where the original had been waiting, and then he quickly hides the staff away and creeps out of the treasure room as quietly as he had come, vowing that this time, they would see his full measure before the end. 

+

By morning, their plans are in motion.

Sif must give Stark some credit for his handiwork, even though she distrusts it: the decoy is very convincing. Were it not for her knowledge of their plan, she might have thought it to be Loki; Stark has even managed to replicate the disdainful curl of Loki's lips.

Thanos seems to be deceived, at least for the moment. Like her king, she does not anticipate that this creature will long be fooled by such a simple trick, so she stands straight and still between Thor and the Warriors Three as they watch guards march this false Loki-- as though theirs had ever been true, she thinks with an almost idle kind of rage-- out to meet Thanos and his waiting generals.

"Wait for it," Tony murmurs, and then suddenly, after the space of one long breath, the decoy explodes in a blaze of red and orange light, knocking Thanos back a few paces. He roars and rises up to face them.

"What did the sensors pick up?" Steve shouts.

"Okay, well, do you want the bad news, or the bad news?"

"Dammit, Tony," Natasha swears.

"Telekinesis, telepathy, superstrength, super... you know what, super everything, you name it, he's got it, and it's super," Tony says.

"Weaknesses?" Steve asks, but there's a note of desperation in his voice that Sif does not like.

"I-- I think we need a new plan," Tony says, barely ducking a powerful blast of energy aimed directly for his head. "Fast."

When the Chitauri surge forth and the battle begins in earnest, for a time it seems to go well, though she cannot help but agree with Stark: Thanos is far more powerful than this, and he is withholding his strength. The thought is chilling, considering that his blows still send even their strongest warriors reeling, and nothing they seem to throw at him slows his advance in the slightest. Still, Sif fights alongside Natasha and Steve, the Warriors Three charging off to their left with cries proclaiming their inevitable victory. Even in the midst of battle, Sif has occasion to watch her mortal allies take down enemy after enemy, and truly they are made of stronger stuff than she would have believed, attacking with a ferocity of spirit worthy of any warriors that fight for Asgard.

It is strange, though, this technology the mortals use to communicate with one another during a fight. Stark's voice is an almost constant presence in their ears.

"If you're wondering," Natasha says, driving one of their enemies' weapons into its own throat, "no, he never stops talking."

"I am not unfamiliar with this sort of thing," Sif assures her, as Fandral scrambles past them, shouting about his own spectacular feats of glory.

Everything seems to be going as it should, which would usually bring her nothing but satisfaction. Today, however, it makes her feel uneasy, and her fears are not unfounded.

It happens while they are distracted by some hideous large Chitauri beast. Thanos lets out a blast of energy that knocks everyone to the ground and pulls both of their flying iron soldiers from the sky. Before anyone can reach him, Thanos has reached Odin, and they see flashes of light and magic from Gungnir as the two of them do battle. What Thanos says, they cannot hear, but they all see the force of his attack; they all see Odin Allfather fall.

"Father!" Thor shouts, anguished, as they watch Odin collapse.

Thor flies after him, but another blast from Thanos sends him sprawling to the ground beside his father, and they are soon beset by a horde of foes. Sif, Hogun, and Natasha race to his aid, fighting their way forward as fast as they can. One last beast makes to stab at Thor from behind, but before anyone can make a move to stop it, the thing gives out a great shriek as Frigga takes to it with her sword, removing its head in one clean slice.

"Mother," Thor says, vaguely awed, but Frigga wastes no time kicking the decapitated body away from her unconscious husband and pointing onward into the palace.

"Go," Frigga tells them, her hand gripping the sword. "I will defend your father; you must defend Asgard."

+

"What do you say, boss?" Clint asks, leaning back from his scope to look over at Phil, who is sitting serenely nearby, calm and collected as always, even amidst the noise and roar of the battle below. "We getting out of this one alive?"

"Could be," Phil says, shrugging. "Hope so. The deposit on that hotel is non-refundable at this point."

"Now see, that's why I love you, Phil," Clint remarks. He fires off an arrow without looking, and on the rooftop across the cobbled street, one of the larger Chitauri falls, dead. "We're in the middle of a warzone on another planet, and you've got the presence of mind to think about non-refundable deposits."

"It's for our anniversary," Phil says. "I have everything planned."

Clint wiggles his eyebrows at Phil. "Are you sending me a bouquet of arrows again this year?"

"That remains to be seen," Phil says. He sees some unexpected movement nearby on the ground and picks up a pair of binoculars. Clint knows exactly the moment they're done with personal and back to professional, just from the way Phil's shoulders settle against the fabric of his suit. "Barton."

"On it," he says, turning his attention and his scope to the shadowed area Phil is currently surveying.

"You seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Loki," Clint growls. "What do you want to do?"

"There's a loaded question," Phil says, a quiet violence to his voice that most people won't ever hear.

"Let me rephrase," Clint says. "What _should_ we do?"

"For now, keep an eye on him," Phil sighs.

"You know, it never sat right with me that he went back to Asgard so willingly."

"Agreed," Phil sighs. "I don't know, though. Lately I'm wondering if whatever crazy plan he had then is the same one he has now. Seems like a few things have changed, but I don't know if they've changed enough."

"Things?" Clint asks, even though he knows perfectly well what Phil means. Love and war are different on Asgard, but they're not so different that he can't read history when the book's open in front of him. "Yeah, well: a wise man once said that when the right person gives you a second chance, you'd be a damn fool not to take it. Guess we're about to see how a big a fool he is."

"Guess so," Phil says, binoculars still trained on Loki. "And did you really just call yourself wise?"

"I call 'em like I see 'em," Clint says, grinning.

"Clint, you drink coffee out of the coffeepot. Directly out of it. No cup. Just coffee."

"Coffee is essential to Specialist Barton's job performance," Clint says didactically, quoting from files he shouldn't have read. "If he does not have an adequate supply--"

"Are you trying to tell me that it's wiser to drink the coffee out of the pot?"

"Cuts out the middleman," Clint says. "Who needs small cups? You've got the giant-ass pot, that's just a large cup, Phil."

"You're a madman," Phil says drolly. He adjusts the binoculars. "Speaking of mad men, actually."

"Ha. What's he up to?"

"Sneaking around, who knows," Phil says. He taps a button on the side of the binoculars. "Building schematics say the corridor he's heading for leads to... a few places of no interest... and Odin's treasure room."

"Fucking predictable," Clint swears. "So much for second chances. Makes you feel sorry for the people who stuck their necks out for him."

"I don't know, I happen to be married to an extremely intelligent and attractive man, who has strange ideas regarding coffee and cups but stranger ideas about being in love with someone like me," Phil says. "So I think, officially, stranger things have happened, Barton."

"Why Phil Coulson," Clint says, adjusting his scope, "You've gone soft."

"Not soft," Phil says, reaching out to squeeze Clint's hand. "Just hopeful."

Clint points down at Loki's retreating shadow and grimaces. "You want me follow him? See what he's up to?"

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Phil says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something resembling a miniature iPad, but thinner and with graphics that come up above the screen.

"Stark tech?"

"None other," Phil says. "Up for a little eavesdropping?"

"Surveillance on a rooftop in the middle of a war," Clint says, pressing one hand over his heart dramatically. "You remembered."

"Happy anniversary," Phil says, grinning. He presses a small button on the side of the device, and the graphics shift into a high-res image of Odin's treasure room. "Now let's see if this thing actually works."

+

The tesseract floats in front of Thanos, blue light pulsing with a sinister intent as he guides it toward the wall that guards the gemstones.

"We had an agreement, did we not?" Loki says quietly, stepping out of the shadows of the treasure room.

"We had nothing but a lie," Thanos laughs. "Do you truly think I needed the assistance of some pathetic child to conquer the universe? I needed nothing from you save a distraction, and such a wonderful one you have been. It mattered little to me that you failed. Had you succeeded, you would have lived for little longer than it took you to release the tesseract into my waiting hands."

"I am no fool," Loki snaps. "I knew what you were about."

"Of course, your little scheme to outwit me and keep the tesseract for yourself, ruling both of the realms you think you are _owed_ ," Thanos replies. "Who are you, to think you might accomplish such a thing?"

"I am a god," Loki says.

"I am a titan," Thanos replies. "You are nothing. What did you say to the mortals? An ant has no quarrel with a boot? How apt. It seems you are useful, after a fashion."

"Oh, I can be very useful," Loki drawls. "For the gem you see in that staff is a fraud, and I am the only one who knows where the true gem has been hidden."

"I believe I will see that for myself," Thanos replies, watching the wall as the power of the tesseract destroys the magic that holds it together, revealing a golden glove set with five gleaming stones. He takes the gauntlet and motions to the staff; it drifts toward his waiting hand, but when it reaches him he lets it fall, disgusted. "For once, you have told the truth, I see."

"Even the best liars do so occasionally," Loki says. "Would you like to know where it is?"

"Tell me now," Thanos growls, stalking toward him, "and you die swiftly and without pain."

Loki shakes his head. "I will hardly give it to you without something in return."

"Your life is not enough?" Thanos queries. "What would you have, then?"

"Information," he says easily. "What will you do with Asgard, once you have what you seek?"

"Raze it to the ground," Thanos replies. "Run, if you like, or stay and die with the loved ones you have betrayed, it is of no consequence to me. Now tell me--"

From behind Thanos, there comes a blast of icy energy; Loki pushes all the power the casket holds toward him, trapping him briefly in a block of ice. It takes every drop of magic the casket contains to hold him, and when it is exhausted Loki drops the useless shell to the floor.

"Every time," he sighs, noting the look of surprise on Thanos's face. This will not buy him much time, but it will earn him enough, surely. "Asgard is _mine_ , titan. Leave it to me, and you can have your missing gem."

+

"Interesting," Clint says, watching the graphics on the screen flicker and slowly fade when Phil turns off the monitor. 

"Somehow, I think this is not the selfless gesture he's going to try to tell us it is," Phil replies.

"He's gonna waltz down there and tell everyone how he saved the day, you reckon?"

"I do," Phil nods. "Casually forgetting, of course, the part where he saved it so he can take over and impress Odin with his substantive grasp of Machiavelli."

"Right? Too bad he's got that bag of cats for a brain, he'd fit right in with all of the rest of us who are just trying to impress Dear Old Dad," Clint says, and Phil reaches over to give his hand a quick squeeze before he turns his attention back to the battle.

"Cap?" Phil says. "I think you're about to have incoming. Natasha, you know what to do."

+

"Oh, good, like we needed another villain," Tony jokes, when Loki finds them. "What is this, your clubhouse?"

"Thanos has the gems," Loki says, ignoring Tony, doing his best to appear genuinely helpful. "Or he will soon."

Steve turns to look at him, startled, though whether it is at the news or the person delivering it, Loki cannot ascertain. "What?"

"He won't have all of them," Natasha says, and though she speaks to Steve, it is Loki she looks at when she says it.

"Of course," Loki says. "SHIELD still has possession of my staff."

"Oh, sure we do." Clint's amused voice comes over the wireless. "You want to tell the nice people what you did, Loki, or should Nat and I do it for you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he says smoothly, but Natasha raises her eyebrows and Sif shifts on her feet, glaring at him.

"Loki," Sif says, a warning in her voice, and he sighs and moves his hands in a bored sort of way until the staff appears, the real one, its blue gem beaming brightly in the dim light.

"You stole it," Sif says, dismayed.

"It was there," Loki says, shrugging.

"We let you steal it," Natasha says. "We suspected it might be useful in the fight against Thanos, and we thought you'd be good at keeping it hidden, as long as you didn't know we wanted your help."

Loki makes no reply, he just stares at the staff in his hands, contemplating using it on all of them, but then Sif catches his eye and he puts the thought out of his mind for the present. She, at least, might still be useful, and with Odin injured, _someone_ will need to rule in his stead.

"Well, you tripped and fell right into a good deed, so I guess the joke's on you," Steve is saying. "Now we just have to figure out what to do with that staff."

"Might I suggest that I continue to keep it hidden?" Loki suggests. "My talent for deception has done you some measure of good thus far."

"You can suggest it all you like," Rhodey says. "Doesn't make it a good idea."

"I hate to say this," Tony says, "but maybe Voldemort has a point."

"Are you for real?" Rhodey asks.

"I said I hated to say it, James," Tony says.

"It's not the worst idea he's had," Natasha says, and Tony salutes her. "It's not like we don't know he has it, and there's nothing he can do with it while we're watching him. And we _are_ watching you."

"Do not take that as a challenge, Loki," Sif growls.

"I don't like it," Steve says, sighing, "but we'll play it this way for now."

"Oh, _thank you_ ," Loki says, sarcasm dripping from every word as he hides the staff away again.

There's a crackling noise from the comm lines as Clint clears his throat.

"Like Nat said, we've got eyes on you, Loki. And you should remember that I don't miss what I aim for," Clint says. "So don't do anything stupid with that, because I'm pretty sure you've got a heart yourself, and it won't work so well with an arrow through it." 

"Thank you," Natasha says, smiling as Loki scowls, "for your cooperation."

+

It does not take long for Thanos to break free, and soon enough he crashes down onto the battlefield once more, commanding new legions of his minions, ordering them to destroy everything they see. Thor rejoins the fray with a lighter heart, for Lyfia has reported that Odin will live on, and together, he and Steve lead the fight to save the main part of the city. Sif and Natasha race after them, Sif's long sword cleaving enemies apart as they follow their leaders while Tony and Rhodey fly on ahead, picking off foes easily from above.

When Loki makes to follow them, Thanos intervenes, sweeping him aside with a terrifyingly powerful fist. The gems on the gauntlet glitter in the early evening light.

"Tell me where to find what I seek," Thanos demands.

"No," Loki says. "This realm is still mine, and you will not take it from me."

Thanos moves to strike him again, but before he can, Tony fires a missile at him. It's a direct hit, but it barely even knocks him over.

"Hey, why don't you pick on someone less likely to sell us out," Tony says.

"It is no matter," Thanos replies, getting to his feet. "I will have my answers from this immortal child. Whether it is before or after I destroy the realm you so desire to rule, Loki, that will be up to you."

He holds up two of the gemstones, their red and purple lights burning brighter and brighter as he brings them ever closer to the tesseract. Energy from the cube spirals up and out to meet the gems, hovering in midair for a moment, then circling around the gemstones in a maelstrom of terrible light until there is a sudden spark and the stones drop heavily to the ground, projecting twin beams up to a single point in space, just above Thanos's head. As they watch, the fabric of the universe seems to peel away at that exact point, like the tiniest tear in a piece of cloth grows wider with use and wear. Behind the slowly widening gap in their universe, they can see strange shadows and hear terrible cries, and Thanos smiles as they grow louder.

"Stark," Phil's voice says quietly. "I don't like the readings we're getting on that thing."

"You and me both," Tony says. 

"Yeah, I have to say, I've seen parties with better decor," someone says, and then suddenly next to Thanos there stands a young woman where moments before there had been no one at all.

Her skin is pale and her hair is as black as the night sky, with the same kind of infinite starry sheen to it. Some sort of metallic symbol dangles from her neck on a thin chain, resting against the simple black shirt she wears. When he sees her, Thanos immediately kneels at her feet, and even Loki frowns curiously at the sight of it. What kind of being brings a titan to his knees without so much as a word?

The girl reaches her hand out and rests it on the crown of Thanos's head, but her hand does not linger there for very long before she draws it back.

"Oh, Thanos," she says, shaking her head. "What have you done?"

+

Far away across the field, the others turn to face the scene unfolding with Thanos and the strange visitor.

Sif frowns. "Who is that?"

"Death," Natasha says, and as she speaks, the young woman turns and smiles. Though they are a good distance from her, Sif does not doubt that the smile is meant for Natasha, who returns the expression with a solemn, respectful nod.

"You know her?" Thor asks.

"Sure. We're old friends," Natasha says, a wry twist to her lips. 

"Aren't we all," Steve mutters, and Natasha lays her hand briefly on his arm. "I'm gonna go down there and see if they need backup."

"They won't," Natasha says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"We will accompany you," Thor says, but Steve holds up his hand.

"No, stay back for now. If this goes sideways, you're wave two." He looks over at Rhodey. "Can you give me a lift?"

"Absolutely," Rhodey replies. "Let's go, Cap."

+

Steve and Rhodey land quietly next to Tony and Loki, a few feet away from where Thanos is still kneeling in front of Death.

"All of this," Loki says, gesturing to the destruction around them. "To impress a _woman_."

The attack is swift; Thanos has Loki facedown on the hard burnt ground at their feet.

"Hey," Steve says, but Tony and Rhodey keep him from stepping forward.

"That is Death you speak of," Thanos growls, pressing down and down on Loki's back. "She is the most powerful being in all the cosmos, and you will insult her at great personal cost."

"And she doesn't need anybody defending her," Death says. Thanos growls, but he releases Loki. "There we go."

"Am I supposed to thank you?" Loki snaps, glaring up at her.

"Not just yet, I think," she says, a sad, sweet smile on her face as she watches him get to his feet. Death turns back to Thanos. "I asked you a question. What have you done?"

"Look upon all that I have done for you, my lady," Thanos says, gesturing to the portal behind them. "Look upon all that I will do."

"Seems like your standard portal to a hell dimension," she observes. "And?"

"I will give this realm up to it," he says. "I offer this realm to you, lady, these supposed immortals and their lives, all shall end, all for your glory."

"Everybody dies," Death says, frowning. "Why would that impress me? It's already on the schedule."

"But Lady," Thanos says, clearly horrified. "If not this, then what? Tell me what you would have me do, and it shall be done."

"You have to do what you think you need to do," Death sighs. She slips her hands into her pockets. "But I'm not giving you my phone number for this one."

She disappears then, fading back into the blackness of the night once more, leaving a disconsolate Thanos in her wake.

"No," he says, his giant hands clenched into fists.

"Hey, big guy, you wouldn't be the first to strike out on a first date," Tony says. "What do you say we just--"

Thanos lets out a terrifying primal shout, the noise of it reverberating around the small cleaning, even reaching the ears of those far away on the palace steps. Then, without a word, he reaches down, grabs the tesseract and the gems from the ground, and leaps through the portal, the gems on the gauntlet sizzling against the energy field as he goes. The tesseract hits the portal like it is a solid wall, betraying Thanos as he tries to escape with it. It falls to the ground with a dull thump, and then everything is very, very quiet for a few moments as they all stand there, processing.

"Huh," Clint says in their ears, as they all stare at the now empty space that Thanos and Death had previously occupied. "Ain't that some shit."

"Seems a little _deux ex machina_ , doesn't it," Tony observes, and Rhodey laughs.

"Isn't everything, when you're around? 'I am Iron Man; the suit and I are one,'" Rhodey says, in a fairly good impersonation of Tony.

"Don't you mean deus ex mort?" Phil jokes, over the wireless.

"Nice one, Coulson," Tony says, but before they can celebrate, there's a low rumbling noise and the portal, which had seemed to close behind Thanos, slowly tears itself open again. It expands and contracts in wild spasms of excess energy, unstable waves of it radiating outward, rocking them all back on their feet.

"What the hell?" Rhodey asks. "Clint? Coulson? What's going on?"

"They can't hear you. Whatever that was, it knocked out our comm system. Looks like the power from the tesseract destabilized the portal's energy field," Tony tells them, checking over readings on his screens. "If we don't get it closed again before it builds to full power, we're looking at an explosion that could take out the entire realm. Maybe even a few beyond it."

"Okay," Steve says, bending to pick up his shield. "How do we close it?"

"I don't know, but we better come up with something fast," Tony says. "These energy readings are well above what the tesseract was putting out when it took out SHIELD's Mojave installment."

"Can we use our repulsors?" Rhodey asks. "Like a shock treatment?"

"Negative, I think that will only destabilize it further," Tony says, checking his screens again. He frowns and looks over at Loki. "Hey, Saruman, you still got that staff?"

"It's a miracle anyone understands you when you speak," Loki grouses. "What do you want?"

"I want you to wave your magic wand at that portal and see what happens," Tony says.

"What will that do, exactly?" Steve asks, clearly skeptical.

"If you're thinking it's gonna be like Antarctica all over again--" Tony begins, but when Rhodey and Steve both turn and fix him with a look, he sighs. "Yeah, okay, there's a sixty-seven percent chance it's like Antarctica."

"And the other thirty-three percent?" Rhodey asks.

"Miami," Tony replies, and the other two Avengers groan.

"Neither of those are good options," Steve points out.

"Correction: those are both _terrible options_ with a _one-hundred percent chance_ of some kind of explosion," Rhodey says.

"Look, some of those explosions will occur in another dimension," Tony says.

"We will all be dead by the time you resolve this argument," Loki says. The staff blinks slowly into existence in his waiting hand. "Shall we put an end to it?"

When the staff makes contact with the energy of the portal, it sizzles and snaps. The longer he stands there, the calmer the energy around it becomes, but the more difficult it is to keep hold of the staff; his hands feel weaker and it is a struggle to stay standing.

"That's enough," Tony says, and Loki steps back, pale and shaking. "Okay, well, the good news is that the staff can channel the excess energy."

"And the bad news?" Rhodey asks.

"I suspect you will say that the lifespan of the person holding the staff decreases the longer they force it do so," Loki says grimly.

"Got it in one," Tony says.

"I'm no genius billionaire playboy philanthropist," Steve interjects, "but won't that kill you?"

Tony answers before Loki can. "With ninety-nine percent certainty, and yeah, I adjusted for your supposedly immortal physiology, which is actually the only thing that might keep you alive long enough to shut that thing down," Tony says. "Between that and whatever advanced physics you do that you call magic, you're... well, you're our only hope. God, I'm quoting Princess Leia, this really is the end."

"Wait, what are you saying?" Rhodey asks. "Usually I speak Tony, but you've lost me."

Tony clears his throat and retracts his face mask so he can look directly at Loki. "It's you or Asgard, Reindeer Games. Your call. Maybe they'll build you a statue. Is that something you people do?"

"Tony," Steve says, a warning in his voice. 

"What? It's a tense moment. The fate of this part of the universe-- and all of our lives, by the way, maybe I forgot to mention that part-- rests solely on the shoulders of the guy who made the cover of the last issue of Villains Monthly. I can't break the ice with some humor?" He looks over at Loki. "Get it? Break the ice?"

" _Tony_ ," Rhodey says.

"Hey, wait, maybe they'll make an ice sculpture instead," Tony says. "Something tasteful, but ultimately ephemeral."

"Please, continue. I hope your affairs are in order," Loki says, gripping the staff tighter and tighter.

"You can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

"Tony, the man's got a decision to make," Steve interrupts. "You want to shut up and let him make it?"

"Sure, fine, whatever," Tony says, holding up his hands. "I'm just saying, I think we all know what's about to happen here."

"Maybe we do, maybe we don't," Steve says. "But you're sure as hell not helping."

"Whatever else happens, we've gotta get everyone clear of the immediate blast radius-- just in case," Rhodey says, sharing a skeptical look with Tony. He nods at Steve. "Come on, Cap."

"One way or another, this is probably the last decision you're ever going to make," Steve says. For a moment, he looks as though he might lay a hand on Loki's shoulder, just as he'd probably do for any of the others, but then he thinks better of it and just shakes his head instead. "Good luck."

+

Thor, Sif, and Natasha are waiting for them when they land on the palace steps.

"We lost contact with you," Natasha says. "What's the situation?"

"And where is my brother?" Thor asks immediately, and Steve steps forward.

"Someone had to stay behind to close the portal that Thanos opened, or it was going to destroy Asgard," Steve says. "He was the only one who could do it. I'm sorry, Thor."

"You mean to say--" Thor begins, and Steve just gives him a tight nod before looking at the ground.

"You've got about three minutes, max," Tony says, when Thor holds his hand out for Mjolnir. "I'd hurry."

"You _will_ take me with you," Sif orders, and Thor reaches out for her.

"Of course," he says, and with a quick few spins of Mjolnir, they are gone; the others watch them speed across the sky toward the flickering light of the portal.

"Trying to decide if that's crazy or brave," Tony says, flipping his face plate up again. "Jury may be permanently out on that one."

"I think it can be both," Rhodey says, retracting his own mask. "It usually is when you do it, anyway."

"There's something we can all agree on," Natasha says.

Tony grins at her. "Why, Miss Romanov, was that a compliment? Or doth my ears deceive me?"

"I know where you sleep, Stark," she says, rolling her eyes, but there's a smile on her face even as she does.

They watch the portal's flickering light for another moment or two.

"You think he'll really do it?" Rhodey asks.

"I don't know," Tony says, his voice thoughtful. "He's not exactly the guy you'd expect to make the sacrifice play, is he."

"Sometimes people surprise you," Steve says, gripping Tony's arm.

"Let's hope so," Natasha sighs.

+

His hands are colder with each passing moment.

The same thoughts that plagued him while he clung to Gungnir over the ruined edges of the bifrost return to him now, uninvited but not unexpected. Will they mourn? Did they ever? This time, at least, Sif has the right of it. He cannot expect them to come after him, for this is the end, and he can feel life slipping away the longer he stands here, the longer he pours his life and his magic into the staff that was supposed to be the implement of his triumph, not his destruction.

It may be for Asgard that he does this, but not as some kind of hero, not selflessly. No, this is revenge, cold and sweet. This is a fitting punishment for all of them, to live on forever with the sting of this loss always on their hearts. No one knows what it is to nurse old wounds of bitterness for thousands of years like Loki does, after all, and if his choices are to die with them or die and leave them with some measure of pain and regret, even though he will not be able to enjoy the fruits of his miserable labors, then this is the choice he will make.

There's a noise behind him and he turns to see Sif and Thor, barely letting their feet touch the ground before they run to close the short distance between themselves and Loki, standing alone against the dark sky.

"What do you think you are doing?" Sif demands.

"For once, something that only I can do," Loki says. "You did say that light was always useful."

"This is hardly what I meant!" Sif shouts. "You know if you do this, there will be no one to chase, Loki, and no one to beg to come home."

"Will you remember?" he asks, gritting his teeth as the portal demands more magic, more energy.

"Of course," she says.

"Then go," he says, "and take my foolish brother with you, there is nothing he can do." When she looks as though she will protest, he continues, "This is well beyond any of the rest of you, so go, before I change my mind and let everyone die."

"Brother," Thor says sadly, "can there be no peace between us, even now?"

"Peace?" Loki laughs. There is a corresponding crackle from the hiss and snap of magic around the scepter, and he grimaces. "Oh, let me drop this scepter, _brother_ , and we can have all the peace you like."

Sif closes her eyes and looks away from them, and there it is, that nameless feeling again, welling up without warning. He knows it now, and this time he names it before he can stop himself. It is regret, and it runs hot and cold against his heart before he pushes it away again.

"You were my closest friend," Thor says. "I remember no shadows. I only remember light; I only remember laughter. Please, if you must lie, brother, at least tell me that some of that was true."

"If I tell you it was so, will you go?"

"No," Thor says stubbornly.

"Thor, there's nothing else to be done," Sif says, shaking her head.

"I cannot let you do this alone, Loki," Thor says, pushing Sif's hands away.

"Of course not," Loki says hotly. "I can't even give my life for the realm without your aid, is that it? They let _you_ do it, but the Mighty Thor may do as he likes, as usual, and I--"

"It is no criticism to say that I do not want you to die alone," Thor says desperately.

" _Thor_ ," Sif pleads. She wraps both of her hands around his arm. "Let him go."

"You should listen to the Lady Sif," Loki says, turning back to the portal. "She is wise."

"Whoever said I was wise?" Thor says. It is an old joke, but Loki refuses to acknowledge it, and he can see just enough of Thor's face to see the hope fade from his brother's eyes when he makes his reply.

"Certainly not me," Loki says. "Go."

Thor's hand brushes his shoulder, but still Loki will not look at him, and he sees Thor step away, imagines the tears in his eyes, savoring the thought of it even as the regret pushes in at the corners of his mind. 

"Loki," Sif says, and he swears as he turns toward her.

"What did I say to you? Why are you still--"

"Do shut up," she says, and her hands are gentle on his face but her lips against his are anything but. She gives the leather straps of his armor one final tug, and though she does not say it aloud, there looks to be some measure of pride in her eyes, here at the end. "I will look for you in Valhalla," she swears, and he shakes his head.

"May it be a thousand years before you have a chance to try, my lady," he says. "Now go."

He does not see them fly away, though he can vaguely hear the noise of it above the increasingly loud rush of the portal. Finally, he is well and truly alone. Sif may look for him in Valhalla, but he does not doubt for one bitter moment that he will be there for her to find. The light of the portal grows smaller even as its glare intensifies, so bright that it is almost blinding. He takes a long, slow breath and pushes back against it, focusing all his magic and his will on the gemstone until he is no longer certain if it is the light that is blinding or the pain.

"Damn," he says, as the portal pulls him closer and closer, and then all of the pain is finally gone.

+

There is no body to throw a torch on, but still they gather by the sea and set fire to a boat in Loki's honor. Twice now they have done this, and once again Sif expects Thor to carry the torch out to sea alone. But when it comes time for it, he looks through the flickering flame at her and holds out his hand, and they wade out into the water side by side, each of them gripping the wooden base of the torch as together they lower it to the floating pyre. The familiar golden horns of Loki's helmet glint in the firelight as the flames consume the kindling piled around it, smoke floating up to stain the beauty of the sky. They watch the boat drift away, standing still and silent as they do, until the weight of the moment is too much for even Thor to bear, and she folds him into an embrace, his tears hot on her shoulder as they hold onto one another. For her part, she keeps her sadness contained for now, measuring it out carefully, heavy but balanced like the perfect weight of the weapons she carries. She had thought herself well-accustomed to mourning him by now, for he was lost to all of them long before this day ever came, but there is a raw ache in her chest and a chill on her lips that nothing will warm.

The light of day has faded when they return to shore and begin the slow silent trek back to the palace. The walk is one of remembrance, meant for reflection and grief; when they reach the halls of Gladsheim it will be time for the Feast of the Dead and the joyful retelling of stories of the glory of fallen comrades. This one will not only be for Loki, for many died in the fight for Asgard, but that is the burden that is heaviest on her own heart, and if she has stories to tell tonight, they will be his.

Someone touches her arm and she startles for a moment at the unexpected warmth of it; she looks over to see who has disturbed her memories.

"This walk is supposed to be silent, Clint Barton," she says, searching his face, remembering with regret and sorrow Thor's recounting of what Loki had done to this man while on Midgard. "But you seem to have something you need to say."

"I don't think it's a secret that there wasn't any love lost between most of us and Loki," Clint says. "Especially me. But that doesn't mean that's true for you, so." He takes a breath. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Sif says.

"Right," Clint replies. "I've gotta-- I'll see you around." He trots ahead to catch up with Phil, and she watches as Clint's hand reaches for Phil's, just for a moment.

"That was unexpected," Natasha says quietly. She matches her pace to Sif's, saying nothing for a time, though like Clint before her, there seems to be something on her mind. "This might not be the time, but we could always use someone with your skills back on Earth. Hill's got me putting together a special team, and I'd like you on it."

Sif frowns curiously over at her. "What manner of team?"

"If I told you, it would ruin the surprise," Natasha says, smiling slyly.

Sif's fingers reach down to curve over the hilt of her sword, seeking reassurance and meeting empty air, for today she does not wear her armor. "When?"

"We should go back as soon as possible," Natasha says. "We did what we came here to do."

"I must stay at least until this time for mourning has ended," Sif replies, though the thought of leaving with them is awfully tempting. There's a coldness in the air today that she cannot seem to ward away.

"I don't mean to sound insensitive, but isn't that what we were doing? With the boats?"

"The Feast of the Dead can last for days, but the ceremonies by the sea are the shorter part of the ritual. We do not mourn our warriors overly much with our tears," Sif explains. "We will see them again, when we meet our own deaths in battle." 

"That must be reassuring," Natasha replies, looking ahead to the point in the line where Clint and Phil are now walking side by side. Sif follows her gaze and nods her understanding.

"It is," she says, willing it to feel as though it might be as true as she once thought it to be. "But I will consider your offer."

"Good," Natasha says, and then she, too, walks on to join her comrades.

The tone of this second feast is remarkably different than the last time they sat at these tables and made merry in the memory of their dead prince. No one speaks ill of the dead here, not even Stark, who matches many of Asgard's warriors dram for dram until someone has the good sense not to serve him anything but water.

It is a long few hours into the evening before Sif can think of anything to say. She sits at a table between Hogun and Volstagg, listening as the rest of them laugh and smile and toast the memory of their fallen comrade, telling stories of his bravery as though he had never betrayed them at all.

The great tragedy of it, the thing that makes her heart ache the most, is that they _do_ have such stories, and not all of them the usual highly embellished tales that Volstagg usually spins for the eager ears of younger warriors. Most of the stories they tell are true, for despite all of Loki's paranoid misunderstandings, the rest of them never doubted that he was more than fit to ride and fight alongside them. She had never been able to find the words to explain that, though she doubts it would ever have made a difference. Hearing and believing are hardly ever one and the same.

She stays until she feels she has done her duty, and then she rises from the table and slips through the crowds. Only Frigga moves to stop her as she makes her way out of the hall.

"My queen," she says, unable to meet Frigga's eyes. "I am so sorry to have failed you."

The last time they had this conversation, she had apologized without any actual remorse behind it, for she had been so very angry-- and justifiably so-- but now her voice is laden with the unmistakable sound of regret and loss, more than she had intended to let show, but far less than she carries.

Frigga's hands are gentle on her own. "You have failed no one," Frigga tells her, but her heart does not feel warmer for her queen's reassurance.

Natasha finds her in the training yard a few hours later, dressed once more in the full weight of her armor, destroying a line of fake foes with sword and dagger and the strength of her hands.

"I heard this was the place you come if you want a good fight," Natasha calls, walking around the edge of the ring, puffs of dust rising up from the ground under her feet as she gets a feel for the terrain.

"It is," Sif says, grateful for the unspoken offer of a distraction from her grief. "There are weapons, if you like."

"No thanks," Natasha says, the easy tone of her voice at odds with the calculated kick she aims at Sif's left knee. "I'd rather improvise."

+

Sif returns to her chambers from her fight with Natasha bruised and bleeding, but feeling better for it. She leaves her sword and shield by the entryway and crosses the room to the balcony, looking out over the city. There is a rustle from the doorway, the shift of heavy fabric on leather, and for a moment hope is rekindled. Heart beating wildly against her ribcage, she turns to greet her unexpected visitor, a scathing retort already rising to her lips.

It dies, never uttered, for it is Thor who stands in front of her. She knows from the apologetic shrug he gives her that he has read the hope that was in her eyes, the hope she wishes she had never allowed herself to feel, and she sighs deeply but welcomes him in with a tilt of her head.

"You left the feast early," he says gruffly, coming to stand next to her on the balcony.

"Am I to be derided for my choices, again?" she snaps. "That will hardly be a new experience."

"Listen to yourself, my lady," Thor says, reaching out to lay his hand on hers, squeezing gently. "I bear you no ill will."

"I--" she begins, but for the moment there is nothing left in her heart but bitter resentment for what is lost to her. "Is this what that feels like?"

"Sif?" Thor queries, and she realizes she has spoken aloud.

"It is no matter," she says, and oh, blessed relief, he lets it be a lie.

"We won," Thor says. "Why does it feel as though we lost?"

"You know why," she sighs, thinking not only of Loki but of an Asgard that was very nearly defeated, that would have been defeated if not for the interference of Death herself. This is no victory they celebrate; this is Thanos's acquiescence. Her faith in her home, her people, and the strength of her own hands has been shaken, and she knows not how to set it to rights.

"I do," he says sadly, holding his arms open, and his kindness is her undoing. She falls into his waiting arms, all of the sadness finally pushing past the protective wall of resentment and anger as she allows herself this one moment of weakness, here with her friend of so many years.

If she is safe with anyone it is with Thor, who alone of all Asgard understands her grief. The pain she has hidden away for all these years uncoils from its hidden place in the hollow of her chest, expanding to fill out the space between her ribs and her lungs, pressing up against her heart, stopping her breath so that she has to gasp for air, every exhalation one long sob. She cries and she shouts and she strikes at him, her fists crashing over and over into the hard metal of his armor until at last her grief ebbs, just as his had on the shore of the sea. His hands come to rest on her shoulders, and when she looks into his eyes she can see there the same exhaustion and anger and regret and loss she feels so keenly.

"I do not know how, my friend," he says, his fingers gripping her shoulders tightly, "but together we will find our way out of this darkness."

She raises her hands to her own shoulders, wrapping her fingers around his, and nods, only once, before he releases her and they turn to face the city again. Quiet descends over the realm as they stand there, listening; the feasts are ending and the mourners are returning home to rebuild.

"I saw the Lady Natasha on my way to your chambers," Thor says, with a hint of his old vitality. "She looked as though she had fought a horde of trolls singlehandedly."

Her lips threaten to curve into a smile, and after a moment, she lets them. "You know my feelings on withholding strength during bouts," Sif replies.

"I know them well," Thor laughs. "And I think you have much in common, Sif, for she would never have forgiven you if you had spared her because she is mortal."

"She is a skilled fighter and a match for any of Asgard's warriors," Sif says proudly. "Her people should celebrate her."

"I would support that," he says, winking, and she laughs, but their laughter dwindles quickly down to sober silence more once.

She sighs. "I have been asked to return to Midgard with them."

"As have I," he says. "And will you go?"

+

"Well, you did say you wanted to hit something, Colonel," Kate says on headset. She watches as a slow smile spreads over Carol's face in anticipation of the smackdown she's no doubt planning to deliver to the giant robotic monstrosity in front of them. "Looks like somebody's been peeking at your Christmas list."

"I don't have a Christmas list," Carol says, grinning. "I just have a Most Wanted."

"So say we all," Kate mutters.

"This isn't the time for Battlestar Galactica references, Hawkeye," Natasha orders.

"Copy that, boss," Kate sighs.

"Carol?" Pepper says. "I'm getting some strange readings from that robot, and I don't think it's wise to--"

"Aw, _hell no_ , Rescue," Carol says, ducking to avoid a waving mechanical appendage that threatens to smack her out of the sky. "Do not tell me that I can't blast this thing."

"Cap?" Pepper says. "You can't blast that thing."

"Dammit," Carol swears.

"No one said you couldn't beat it up," Natasha says.

"I've got a better idea," Kate says, watching the robot carefully, searching for weaknesses in its seemingly impenetrable armor. "Hey, Lady Sif."

"Yes?" Sif asks.  
.  
"Think you can get behind this thing if we distract it for you? There's a place on whatever this thing has instead of a neck that looks like it's just begging for someone to stab it with a long pointy sword."

"Oh," Sif says, staring up at the thing from where she stands next to Natasha, "I believe I can handle this task."

"You heard the lady," Natasha says, grinning into her headpiece. "Let's keep it distracted."

As the others mobilize, Sif moves to take a run at the creature, swords out, hair whipping out behind her as she gains speed. She wonders as she sprints down the street towards their enemy how she ever thought to deny herself the opportunity to fight alongside these people, for she very nearly remained in Asgard out of duty, out of grief, out of love. But every morning the air grew colder as she counted another comrade lost in a battle that nearly ended everything, that would have done if not for the intervention of fortune, and every morning she hated her surroundings that much more. If anyone knows what a toll that kind of bitterness has on an immortal heart, it is Sif; she has seen it for herself, and she refuses to know it.

Natasha has offered her demons that she can fight, and she is glad of the opportunity. 

She leaps up, aiming for the spot Bishop had mentioned, and when her weapon connects with her foe, the blade scraping against metal and slicing through circuitry, she feels that this, at least, will end in victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few plot notes: This rather obviously ignores anything The Avengers might have had to say about what's going on with that staff. See previous note re: I do what I want. I'm also crossing comics streams with Death, here, and no regrets.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sif comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story o'feels! I hope you have enjoyed reading it at least half as much as I have enjoyed writing it (even during all those times when I shouted at Loki to get his shit together). This story would not have happened without significant hand-holding and offers of internet-shoulders from [shadowen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen), who is the best beta and friend anyone could ask for.

_Epilogue_

The celebration upon Thor and Sif's long-awaited return to Asgard is legendary, and it lasts for several days. For her part, Sif suspects that Thor enjoys it as much as she does, which is to say, not as much as they might have done in the brighter days of their youth. Her chambers are exactly as she left them, an unexpected comfort. She has been living amongst mortals for so long now that she had forgotten the peaceful reassurance of the unchanging eternality of her home, and now that she is finally alone, she settles back into it with quiet relief. 

It is good to see Asgard renewed, her fields long lines of waving green and gold once more, her warriors mighty and strong. The city has repaired itself in her absence, and the view from her balcony is the same as it ever was. She breathes in the night air, still colder than it ought to be, but less so than it was on the morning decades ago when she had knelt before her king, begging leave to go to Midgard. Odin's face had been shadowed and sad when he granted her request, but Frigga's hands had been warm and her smile had been hopeful as she bid Thor and Sif farewell. What Frigga hopes for, Sif does not know; her wounds are healing slowly, but the ache of them has not yet passed from her heart entirely. She closes her eyes and breathes out, willing her heart to feel welcome here, willing it to feel as though she is home. 

And then something moves in the curtains behind her, barely a whisper of sound, and she is on the intruder in the space of a breath, pulling a dagger from her boot as she drives her forearm against the pale white skin of someone's throat. Someone, it seems, who is wearing very familiar armor and looking down at her with an expression that says he is hardly surprised to have been greeted thusly after sneaking into her chambers.

"Loki," she says, stepping back and dropping the dagger to the floor in shock.

"Did you miss me?" he asks, and when he has the temerity to _grin_ at her, she can take no more, and her fist smashes hard and fast against his mouth.

"I choose to believe that is an affirmative answer," he mumbles, his voice muffled by his hands as he clutches his face in pain. "I have to say, this is not entirely the welcome I was hoping for."

"Oh, I _hate_ you," she says, though there is no such emotion in her voice and well he must know it, for any relief or joy or anger she feels that his death was only another in a long line of illusions she does not speak aloud. All of that she saves for the kiss she gives him. 

"That was more like what I expected," he says, when she lets him speak again.

"If you even think about making one snide remark about sentiment, Loki, I swear," she says, bending to retrieve her dagger and brandishing it at him as she straightens.

"After all your efforts to keep me alive? Lady, I do not think you would kill me _now_ ," he laughs.

"Do not try my patience, and by Yggdrasil's roots, Loki, tell me you have spoken to your brother since you have returned," she says, and when he shakes his head, she raises her hand with the dagger again, but he holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture and she waits for his explanation. 

"There is a reason," he protests. "I cannot stay."

"And why have you spoken to me, then, if you are leaving again?"

"I had thought you might come with me," he says, an openness to his voice that she has not heard there since they were children. She wonders at it; she wonders where he has been that he has had cause to find it again. 

"I have only just returned," she replies, and he frowns.

"Where have you been?"

"I returned to Midgard for a time," she says slowly, sheathing the dagger at last. "With Thor."

"I see," he says crisply, and she holds back a sigh.

"You see very little," she remarks. "And you do not take my meaning. There has been little warmth for me in these halls of late, and of all of them only Thor felt the same chill in the air. We fought with the mortals; we fought with our friends, and for a time our hearts were warmer."

"In each other's company," he says bitterly.

"Sometimes," she agrees, thinking of the long nights she and Thor lay next to each other, not for love or even distraction but for comfort, to have someone who understood. "But Thor still loves a mortal, and I...I do not."

"Then come with me," he says again, and she shakes her head.

"Not now," she says, and at the wounded look on his face, which he does not even try to hide, she sighs. "I will not have this old argument again. Why must it always be all of one and nothing of the other? Must I turn my back on Asgard entirely to come with you?"

"I suppose not," he admits. "But why have you returned at all, if you are so unhappy here?"

"We stayed too long," she sighs. "And yet not long enough. I forget how little time they all have. I would lose my friends to death in battle, but not to old age, Loki. I would not watch them dwindle in mind and body until all hope of an honorable death is extinguished. And so we returned, before it was too late."

"Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed your time fighting alongside _Natasha_ ," he says, lips curling moderately in distaste, and she laughs.

"You only dislike her because she got the better of you," she says, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

"Oh, but I still like _you_ ," he says, and she smiles over at him.

"And I don't hate you entirely, I suppose," she says. "You are partially responsible for the fact that I had a home to return to, after all."

"If you are about to accuse me of having done a _good deed_ , then do please throw me off of this parapet instead," he says, gesturing to the balcony in front of them. 

"Perish the thought," she says, her lips twisting in a wry smile.

"I am many things, but I am not a hero, Sif, no matter how many stories you tell over flagons of mead at dinner."

"I know," she says. "But that does not mean you have to be a villain."

"It's frequently more fun," he says, and she sighs. "Well, it _is_."

"For you, perhaps," she says. "Not as much for the rest of us."

"I had not known regret in a long time, lady," he says, suddenly and completely serious, or at least doing a very good impersonation of someone who might be. "But for you, however briefly, I think I did."

"Forgive me," she sighs, shaking her head, "but how am I to begin to hope that this is genuine?"

"What a mad hope that would be," he says quietly.

"Perhaps it was the only kind of hope we ever had," she murmurs, and they stand together and watch the stars for a time, until at length he holds up his hand, turning it over to reveal that familiar ball of light, as much of a peace offering as he can probably think to make. Sif watches it for a moment, then without a word she reaches over to take his hand, and light spills out between their fingers in bright golden rays, illuminating the stones at their feet.

He passes his other hand over their joined fingers, and the light changes color, shifting to a strange blue. When she brings her hand away, her fingers are clasped around a hard blue gemstone no bigger than the flat of her palm; it casts an eerie blue light upon all it touches.

"What is this?" she asks, curious, holding it up to the starlight. She suspects that she knows what it is, but she awaits his explanation. "If you are trying to woo me, Loki, trinkets will not do nearly as well as a weapon might."

He smiles, the same familiar old slyness to it, but somehow lacking in its usual malice. "Then I suppose it is just as well that there is more to that trinket than you know."

"Have you given me a weapon, then?"

"It is one of the gems that Thanos sought," he explains. "It is better that I do not have it, and better still if Thanos, wherever he may be, believes it to be locked away in another universe, should he ever return."

"And you have given it to me for safekeeping," she muses. She turns the gem over in her hand, memorizing the weight of it. "Why me?"

"I presume you will not go mad with power," he says drolly. "Though if you did, _I_ wouldn't mind."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," she replies, rolling her eyes.

"Do with it what you will," he says, and then he looks down at her, a strange expression on his face; it is almost _wistful_ , an unusual look for him, to be certain. "It is good to see you as I remembered you."

"Where have _you_ been, that you had occasion to remember me otherwise?"

"Asgard," he says, sighing, "or rather, Asgard as I always wanted it to be. But perhaps not as it should have been."

"I do not understand," Sif says, frowning.

"Perhaps some day I will have the occasion to tell you the tale, but for now let us say only that over the last several centuries I have grown... _uncomfortable_ with the idea of ruling anything," he says sourly, and she frowns, curious: no centuries have passed for the rest of them, though this does not seem to be one of his tricks.

She sighs. "Why must you go, if it no longer interests you?"

"I said uncomfortable, not utterly disinterested," he clarifies, and she raises an eyebrow, but she does not question him further about his whereabouts. That he is alive at all is startling enough, but this unexpected honesty has left her nearly speechless, and she finds that she has little more to say.

"Will you truly not speak to Thor before you leave?" she asks. "Loki, he grieves for you still."

"I will take it into consideration," he grumbles. "You will not come with me?"

"Not yet," she says, leaving the balcony behind so that she can place the gem on a low table near her couch. He follows behind her, his footsteps quiet but steady. "Perhaps one day, for a time."

"Very well," he sighs, and she turns to face him again.

"I trust you need not leave until the morning," she says, her hand on his chest, fingertips surrounding his heart.

He brings his hand up to cover hers, and though it is with his mouth that he answers her, it is not with words.

He is gone when she wakes, as she expected he would be. It is something of a surprise to find the gem where she had left it the night before, for she had truly imagined it would be gone. It sits upon her table, dimly glowing even in the light of day, a testament to what she dearly hopes is a change for the better. At the very least it is a willingness to change, to be something other than a villain.

She remains uncertain about the fate of the gem. It is an odd thing, and though it has been entrusted to her, she feels uncomfortable with it. It belongs in the treasure room, surely, guarded and safe along with all the other relics, and she resolves to ask Odin what he would have her do with it, for it is a burden she does not wish to bear. Loki would no doubt see that as a betrayal, but then again, perhaps that tide has finally turned. Hope remains, albeit some mad hope.

On her way to seek the Allfather's counsel, ready to relinquish the gem if that is what her king wills, she sees Thor standing on a nearby balcony, his cape billowing gently in the morning breeze. At the sound of her footsteps, he turns. Sif holds her breath, waiting, hardly daring to hope, and then he sees her. A bright smile comes over his face, at last replacing the shadows that have lingered there for these many years, and she returns the smile with one of her own, feeling warmth and life behind it once more. They do not speak, not yet. It is enough to share this silent acknowledgement that all is not lost, and it is with a light heart and lighter steps that she turns her feet toward the throne room, eager at last for the dawn of a new day.


End file.
